High Fidelity
by IReen Weiss
Summary: Damaged Edward, damaged Bella. Two sides of the same scarred coin. When one side is up, the other is down. Language and lots of it. Lemons eventually. It's a slow burn, slow and painful. Mature. Lots of random pop culture references. AH, AU, ExB.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended.****

* * *

><p><strong>Mid September<strong>

Junk, junk, junk, Macy's catalog, junk, bill, bill, bill.

I toss the catalog in the outside garbage can on the way in to my house, because it stinks like what I imagine The Situation must smell like. Gag.

I head into my kitchen and pull out some cinnamon gummy bears as I stand over my trash can and open the mail.

Water bill, internet bill. An invitation to go deeper into debt, courtesy of CapitalOne.

Vonage wants my business.

So does AARP for some reason. How insulting. I'm only 27 for Christ's sake. I toss it in the bin and slit open the next envelope. Hmmm, it's from Allstate. They are probably offering to protect me from Mayhem, at a better rate then I am currently paying to State Farm.

I open it.

Wait.

What.

The Fuck?

I almost choke on my Cinnabears.

I am holding what appears to be a collection notice in regards to a HIT and RUN accident back in July. Oh fucking shit. $982 in damages?

For a moment I struggle to understand exactly what I am looking at, and then it dawns on me.

No he DIDN'T.

I am going to kill Edward Cullen.

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended.****

* * *

><p><strong>Back in July<strong>

Fold, tear, staple, stack.

Fold, tear, staple, stack.

I was at work, just finishing up the accounts payable and fighting the urge to crawl under my desk and nap when I heard the door to our suite open. Heels clicked across our unmanned reception area's tile floor, then were muffled by the carpet as the visitor suddenly appeared at my office door.

It's him. Edward Cullen. We have worked in the same office building for over five years and never spoken to each other.

Our complex has ten suites in it. A bunch of white collar offices including a handful of lawyers, a realtor, a dentist, some accountants, an auto repossession company, and the insurance place right next to me. Sometimes when Emmett Cullen slams a filing cabinet in his office, stuff falls off the shelves in mine. I work for the realtor.

Edward and I pass in the hallway on occasion. I smile politely, he nods. We don't talk. Sometimes I go into the break room to nuke my overpriced organic non-gmo lunch and run into him taking some leftover Chinese food out of the microwave. Sometimes it's Mexican. It's always in a Styrofoam container. He doesn't acknowledge me.

Its not that I dislike the man, it's just that you can tell he thinks he is better than everyone else because he parks his Jaguar in the middle of two parking spaces so that it has 4 feet of clearance around it at all times.

"Hi." I looked up at him expectantly.

He leaned against the door frame like he was posing for a cover shoot for GQ. I had a hard time keeping saliva from pooling in the corners of my mouth. Yeah – he is pretty.

"Do you happen to know who owns the Red Isuzu Rodeo in our lot?"

"Ya – I do." Uh oh. Did I leave my lights on?

"Did you know that you hit someone in the parking lot this morning?"

Come again?

"Uh. No I didn't. Wait, you mean, someone hit me?" I thought maybe he had misstated what he was trying to say.

"No, you hit another car in the parking lot."

I actually laughed. This was absurd. "Nope, wasn't me."

He just looked at me. I noticed that his eyes were a stunning shade of green.

"You have a dent in your bumper." Good job Sherlock. Yeah, I have a dent in my bumper, and the paint has oxidized off the hood, I am missing one of the roof rack handles and there is a huge bleach stain on the floor in the backseat. I probably drive a shittier car than anyone else here. But I love it. It goes everywhere, rides just a little bouncy, and I know my way around the engine.

A few months ago my neighbor's girlfriend parked her Honda CRX in front of my house, halfway blocking my driveway. The next morning when I left I told myself to shimmy around it and then totally forgot and rolled right into it. My bumper dented and she has a nice ding over her right rear tire. She didn't care, I didn't care. We didn't make a thing out of it.

I cannot tell you how many times I have been harassed by guys in parking lots who offer to pop the dent out for me, no trouble at all. I turn them down. I can handle that myself… I just haven't done it yet.

It's on my to-do list.

"Yes, I have a dent in my bumper. It's been there for months. I hit a friend of mine back in May."

Edward Cullen looked at me like I was full of shit. Jasper appeared next to him.

"It's true, she's had that dent for ages." Thank you, Jasper.

Edward looked disappointed. "Oh. I thought I solved the mystery. It lined up perfectly."

"No, sorry." Actually I wasn't, but it seemed like the appropriate thing to say. "Who got hit?"

"The dentist's wife, Mrs. Kaimana."

"Bummer. And no one saw anything?" I know for sure no one saw me hit her car, because I didn't.

"Apparently not. Well, sorry for the inconvenience-" Edward looked at the name tag I have on my desk, -"Isabella Swan." Then he turned and vacated my doorway. I heard the tap-tap-tap as he crossed the tile on his way out.

Okay.

Jasper grinned.

I smiled back.

"That was weird." I said, going back to my fold-tear-staple-stack routine.

"What was that all about? I only heard part of it." Jasper plopped down in the extra chair near my desk.

"So you didn't hear him TELL me that I hit someone this morning? As if I could have and not known?"

I reflected. It was odd the way he had asked me about it. Sort of like informing me that my shirt was on inside out, which does, admittedly, happen sometimes. Like he was being ever so helpful by pointing it out to me.

What an ass.

"_Did_ you hit someone?" Jasper asked. But I could tell he was joking. Jasper Whitlock is a real estate agent here in the office. We sell foreclosed properties and he is the broker's right hand man. We've been coworkers and friends for years.

"No… I think I would remember that."

He reached into my candy dish and grabbed some Cinnabears. "So, is someone saying they saw you hit Mrs. Kaimana?"

"I don't think so." Honestly, I think Mr. Bed-head looked around the parking lot, saw my rusted and battered Rodeo and decided I was a likely candidate to hit someone and not say anything about it. Not the case. When I roll my Rodeo into something, I leave a note.

"Well, I've got your back, Bells. I remember when that dent showed up and I know it wasn't today."

"Thank you, Jasper."

"No prob."

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

Authors Note:

I don't mean to bash Allstate. I love Mayhem. But something like this actually happened to me, and Allstate was the perpetrator. It was annoying as all get out. Unfortunately, the irritating agent wasn't Edward Cullen, asshole or not.

Thanks for reading!

**Mid September**

"Thank you for calling Cullen Insurance, we are not available to take your call at this time, if you know the extension for your party, please dial it now. Otherwise, please leave a message in this general mailbox and either Edward, Alice, or Emmett will return your call as soon as possible."

I press END on my cell phone and call the number on the notice. I navigate the automated system, punching in the claim number and my zip code.

"Thank you for calling Allstate Subrogation, this is Tina."

"Hi Tina, I got a notice from you guys in regards to an unpaid claim."

She asks me for my name. I give it to her. Then she asks me how I would like to pay.

"I'm sorry there has been some kind of misunderstanding here. I wasn't involved in any accident."

"Are you the owner of a 1996 Isuzu Rodeo?" She rattles off my plate number.

"Yes, I am. But I wasn't in an accident. I didn't hit anybody."

"Ma'am, did you let anyone borrow the vehicle?"

I start over. "I'm sorry – please let me explain. This car was not involved in this accident. The agent who filed the claim must have done so erroneously."

"You will have to speak directly with the agent about that ma'am. But I do need to advise you that if this collection is not paid timely, your license may be suspended."

Great.

I disconnect and stare at my phone for a minute. I hate this feeling. The feeling that I have to take action right now, yet no action is possible.

I decide to go into Cullen Insurance first thing tomorrow and sort this all out.

In the meantime I feel like I need to burn off some anger. I quickly shed my work clothes and strap myself into my jogging attire. I sweep my hair back into a ponytail and pop my earbuds in. Jake is already roo-rooing in excitement. I leash him up and hit the streets. After he takes a monstrous crap in the open field near my house we break into a steady run.

I try to think about anything other than Edward Cullen.

My iPod shuffles to Ace Of Spades by Motorhead and I kick it into high gear. Jake looks up at me with his bi-eyes and big Husky grin, his tongue flopping out on one side.

_If you wanna gamble I tell you I'm your man, you win some lose some its all the same to me…_

I have a problem with stress sometimes.

I get into this awful anxiety spiral when something gets me worked up and I can't calm down. I feel that way right now, as I push myself harder. I am trying to find my cave. My power animal. My happy place. My zen. A penguin telling me to slide.

I am trying not to think about the nerve of that man.

An hour later I'm distracting myself with the Mariners game and a pint of Cherry Garcia Fro-Yo. Jakes head rests on my knee as I scrape my spoon against the inside of the carton. He is giving me his "share your ice cream with me" face, and I am ignoring it.

I am doing pretty good in my zen moment until my mind wanders back to the bill for $982 sitting in my purse. My heart speeds up a little.

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

The next morning I dump my purse and coffee off at my desk and then head into the next suite to have a little discussion with Mr. Cullen.

I open the door and his office is eerily quiet. Nobody dares laugh here I guess. Mr. Serious might get his panties all in a bunch. At reception is the pixie, Alice Cullen. She actually talks to me in the break room. She's nice. She has a nice style too. Very, funky-elegance.

"Hi Bella. Did you get some of our mail again?" I am forever getting mail for the suite next door.

"Yeah, actually, but this time it was addressed to me personally. Is Edward here?"

"No, he won't be in this week. Can I help you with something?"

Of course.

"Maybe." I say and I hand her the notice I got in the mail yesterday. "I think your agency filed a claim against me. My understanding is that someone hit the dentist's wife back in July. Do you know anything about that?" I am trying to be nice. More flies with honey than vinegar, dontcha know.

Alice looks at the notice. "I don't know anything about it. Hmm, Allstate Subrogation Department. Do you not have insurance?"

"I do have insurance. That isn't the point. I wasn't involved in this accident. I don't know why this claim was filed against me. Also no one requested any information from me, insurance or otherwise." This really irritates me. I am right next door. It's not hard to come ask me for my insurance card. Apparently, Edward Cullen decided it would be easier not to bother with details like that.

"Okay. Well. Why don't I make a copy of this and have Edward give you a call."

"Please do." She does and I write my number on her copy. "Can you tell him it's urgent?"

She nods. I leave. Irritated. Back at my desk I call my dad and explain the situation. He tells me to contact my own insurance company and file a claim. In fact, I had considered doing as much, but I was worried that it would lend legitimacy to the accusation somehow.

I call Rosalie over at State Farm.

I explain the situation. Again. She listens. She seems as flummoxed as I am. She tells me she has never heard of such a thing happening.

"So, what do I do?"

"Well…" she trails off. I can hear her shuffling papers in the background. "I am going to initiate a claim. It will be a little tricky, because our claim form is based on there having been an accident, not the opposite. But I will get it through. Then you can relax and let me handle this for you. Do you have the information of the agent who filed the claim? You said it was Allstate?"

"Yes. Here in my building. The agent is Edward Cullen."

"I know him." Rosalie's tone sounds more like she knows OF him. Like he is notorious or something. Or maybe it is more like she has had to deal with him before and it wasn't pleasant. I sympathize.

"You do?"

"Yup." She pops the P and I know for sure that she has dealt with him before. She sounds like she is gearing up to do battle. "Bella, I think you should let me handle this. If Edward gets in touch with you, why don't you give him my number and let him know that you have referred the matter to your agent."

Sounds good to me. Rosalie is a pit bull. I trust her. She promises to keep in touch and we hang up.

I Google 'Edward Cullen, Allstate Insurance' and click on his agency page. I look at his picture. He isn't smiling. His hair is in its usual disarray.

What is it about this guy? He looks like he wears Italian suits, his nails are clean and buffed and he smells expensive. He can't run a fucking brush through that shit?

I bet he does it on purpose.

Up in the right hand corner is a little blue "t" that I recognize, followed by a cheery invitation to follow his agency on twitter. I click on it.

Twitter loads and it's the same disconcerting picture next to the bio.

_Edward Cullen_

_(at)allcullenins_

_Native Seattleite._

He has almost 70 tweets to his credit. Hmm. A man of few words. I scroll down. He doesn't tweet about insurance at all. Looks like he sold a motorcycle on Craigslist a few months ago. And apparently he has a custom built vacation home in Costa Rica on the Guanacaste Peninsula that you can rent by the night. I click on a recent tweet with a web address which opens a new window. A window into a paradise I've never experienced. White sand. Palm trees.

Ocean front property.

I get a twinge of irrational anger. I am not a classist person. I don't hate on people with money or advantage. Sometimes I am envious, sure. I work full time during the week and then pick up extra work catering on weekends. I take a full time course load at an online university. It would be nice not to have to do any of that to make ends meet. But that is life.

Mostly, I am ok with it. Work hard now, reap benefits later. Right?

But it is really irking me that this Jaguar driving, world-fucking-traveler, with money to burn, apparently, is picking on ME - so that his client, a rich dentist's trophy wife, doesn't have to be responsible for damage to her vehicle. They want to push the claim on to me and MY insurance so that MY rates go up.

I feel the blood burn in my cheeks and around my eyes. I take a deep breath. And then another.

Chill out, Swan, I tell myself.

Rosalie will fix it.

I close the panorama of never-never-land in front of me and head to the coffee pot. Time to get down to business.

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

I'm out on the trail with Jake when my Evo vibrates in its pouch. I slow to a brisk walk and check the display. I don't recognize the number but I answer it anyway. Sometimes I don't, depending.

"Hello?" My voice is a little shaky from the exertion, but mostly OK. I don't sound as winded as I feel.

"Isabella Swan?"

God I hate it when people address me that way. "Yeah?"

"It's Edward Cullen. How are you?"

My response is automatic. Darn manners. "Good, how are you?"

"Fairing. Look. I'd like to apologize for the collection you received. I contacted the claims department and informed them that you weren't involved. All you have to do is call them and let them know."

"Is that the number on the bill? The Subrogation Department?"

"Yes. Tell them you spoke with me."

"Okay."

"Is there anything else?"

"Yes actually. Why did you file a claim against me?"

He is quiet on the other end of the line.

Then he launches into a spiel that I think is mostly bullshit.

"Allstate goes to great lengths to protect the interests of our insured. We filed claims against multiple people in the building. You were only one of many. You were likely sent to Subrogation because you failed to respond to notifications sent to you wherein you were named as a possible party to the accident."

I am not in insurance. I don't like dealing with it. I honestly don't understand how what he is saying is even legal.

"You filed claims against multiple people?"

"Yes. When you got the first notice, all you had to do was respond. Allstate has assumed your guilt because you are the only person named in the claim who has not contacted them."

He makes it sound like the mighty overlord Allstate, in its omnipotence, gave me chance after chance, and I, lowly subject that I am, sealed my own fate by ignoring their warnings.

"This was the only notice I got." I say, lamely. I am completely stopped on the trail now. Jake is sniffing around, enjoying the break.

"That is not my problem. Have a nice day, Miss Swan."

"Wait!" I say, but the hum of an open connection is already gone.

My opinion of Mr. Cullen isn't going up in a hurry.

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

Guess how surprised I am, the next day, when Javier in the Subrogation Department tells me that he has no notes in the file to the effect that Edward Cullen spoke with anyone there.

Yeah, not surprised at all.

I pull up my call history and find his number.

Even MORE not surprised that I get voice mail.

Beep

"Hi Edward, it's Bella Swan from Olympian Real Estate next door. I spoke with Javier in Subrogation and he has no record that you spoke with anyone over there. I am not sure what, exactly, is going on, but I've contacted my insurance company to get involved. Please work with Rosalie Hale from here on out." I leave Rose's number and then disconnect.

I have the sneaking suspicion that Edward Cullen is going to give me the run around. Better to let Rose at him.

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

I spend the weekend studying and spending time with Jake. We go to the lake, we go to the dog park. We do some Yoga, awkwardly. We play fetch, which Jake only enjoys for so long. Ultimately, I end up telling him to get the ball whereupon he regards it, and then me, with superior disinterest, before sauntering on. Huskies are highly intelligent, but willful. And stubborn. And they shed a lot.

Like me. My shower drain catches masses of hair each morning, and yet I still have way more than I know what to do with. But I'm okay with that.

On Sunday I have dinner with my dad at the Taqueria we both favor. I drown my tacos in Tapatio and he asks me about the latest with the insurance scam.

"I don't know, I'm trying not to think about it. It just frustrates me."

"Is Rosalie handling it for you?" My dad has his policies with her as well.

"Yeah, but I haven't heard back from her since the initial phone call. It was just Thursday though, so it's not a big deal."

I go over to his place for a while to catch the end of the game. Verlander is working a no-no into the 8th, but then he blows it when Justin Smoak lines one into the gap. We both cheer. Not that it would make any difference. The Mariners are mathematically eliminated at this point. But the Tigers are making a good run. In fact, I was sort of on the Verlander bandwagon.

But I would never tell my dad that.

I look over at him out of the corner of my eye and catch him doing the same to me.

"That Justin, huh?" He says, and I laugh, because he could be referring to Verlander or Smoak.

When the game ends I kiss his bewhiskered cheek and head home. My place is all dark and lonely looking, but Jake is inside wagging away. Now that the weekend is over, I sort of wish I had had catering work. It would be over now, I would have some extra funds. Instead I am dreading next weekend where I will be running a wedding with a head count of almost 300 people.

Hello 19 straight days of work. Blah.

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

Monday. The beginning. I am banging my head against my 3rd cup of coffee when Edward Cullen appears in my office.

He is not smiling. And now neither am I.

"Good Morning," he says to me.

I feel like Curly Bill in Tombstone when I say "Hi," back. It sort of comes out sounding like FUCK OFF.

Edward is looking at me in a way that makes me think I have something stuck in my teeth. He looks put out. Maybe it is just my tone.

I am usually such a nice person, but this guy really rubs me the wrong way.

"I got your message. I spoke with the claims department again and they said they hadn't heard from you." I roll my eyes. So it's back on me now. Miss Non-Compliant. He goes on. "I think we are communicating with two different entities within Allstate. I was wondering if I could see the notice you got."

"You should have a copy already. Alice took one when she got my phone number." But I am already rifling in my purse for the envelope.

"I would just like to verify it with you, what number you have been calling. We are obviously talking to different people."

I hand him the notice and he nods. "Why don't we clear this up right now. Do you have a moment to come over to my office?"

I lock my computer and my office and follow him over to Allstate. Once again I am a little put off by the vibe in the room. Maybe it is because everyone at Olympian Real Estate genuinely likes each other that I notice the hostility that seems to float in the air all around this office.

And they are family. How sad.

Alice has her headphones on and is inputting data at her desk. I can hear the hushed sound of Emmett on his phone in his office, which shares a wall with mine. Edward guides me into his office and shuts the door behind me.

Why do I feel trapped?

He makes his way around to his side of the big desk. I can't help but appreciate the way his office is decorated. Very art deco, with geometric shapes and clean lines everywhere I look. He has some framed prints of classic car hood ornaments, and on the wall behind me, the old High Fidelity Maxell ad with a guy in sunglasses being blown backwards by the awesome power of his sound system. There is a small signature in one corner, but I don't know whose. Probably John Lennon or Jesus, the way Edward Cullen acts.

He plants his earpiece in his ear and punches some keys on his phone, dialing the number for Subrogation. I sit quietly across from him, trying not to fidget.

His side of the conversation that ensues makes me very uncomfortable.

It doesn't help that he stares directly at me the whole time.

I mean, a normal person would, maybe, jot some notes or fiddle with the mouse, or even rub one hand across his brow in frustration, during this conversation. But Edward just holds my gaze. And I don't know why, but I can't look away from him.

Apparently, he is dealing with a girl named Angel, and Angel isn't hip to the fact that this is the Edward Cullen show. He is berating her mercilessly, with a cold precision that must just be WHO he is. It's highly unsettling.

It's more than that, its upsetting. Angel didn't get us into this. Edward did.

My neck starts to heat. I try to start my zen cycle so that my cheeks don't flame, but I fear it may be too late.

"Thanks for nothing," Edward says as he punches the end key on his phone. He doesn't look away. "Your face is red."

Oh, you noticed.

"Do you always treat people like garbage?" I can barely get the words out clean, anger making my tone jagged.

Only then do his eyes shift. "Not always." He punches another number into his phone and repeats his name, branch ID number, and some other stuff to whoever is next in line. He doesn't stare me down during this conversation, although it is no less unpleasant.

When Allstate Corporate puts him on hold and he looks over at me, I tell him what I think.

"I cannot believe the way you are talking to these people, as if they screwed up, when it was actually you who brought this about.

His deadpan eyes don't change. "Actually, Isabella, you wouldn't be sitting here if you had simply responded to the first notification we sent you."

The heat in my neck tickles the corners of my eyes, burns around my brows.

"Actually, _Edward_, I wouldn't be sitting here if you hadn't filed a false claim against me for something I didn't do."

He quirks a brow at me and I go on. "Furthermore… I get a ton of junk mail. Sometimes I open it. Sometimes I don't. I get solicitations from insurance companies on a daily basis. I have no reason to open anything from Allstate because I don't hold any policies with you guys. And I didn't hit anybody, YET, so I had no reason to anticipate that you would file a claim against me. I probably threw the first notices away, not knowing what they were. I'm lucky I opened this one. You're lucky…"

But I am interrupted as he resumes his conversation into the phone. It only lasts a few more moments and Edward jots a confirmation number on my collection notice and then hangs up.

"I've gotten the claim cancelled. It will take about 24 hours to process. You should call this number, the day after tomorrow, and give them this code. Tell them you want to check the claim it is in regards to. They should tell you no such claim exists. Got it?"

He hands me the paper and I reach for it.

Is it just me or does he purposely skim my hand with his finger as I take the paper from him. Is this how Clarice Starling felt when Hannibal Lector touched her in the same manner? Like the charged atmosphere of the room just lifted the hair away from my scalp and made it crawl.

And he is looking at me like he knows full well that all my hair is standing on end.

I wet my lower lip, because suddenly my whole existence feels parched. His eyes dart down to my mouth.

I don't know why we just stare at each other a moment before I find words.

"And the collection?"

"They will be notified."

"I won't be thanking you." I say, indignantly as I stand.

"I didn't expect you would. However, I should mention that at least you got to see how hard Allstate fights for its clients. If you were with Allstate, we would fight this hard for you. To protect YOUR interests, Isabella."

Whoa, this guy isn't seriously trying to pitch me right now.

"I'm very happy with State Farm. They manage to protect me without being assholes."

Edward Cullen sits back in his chair. There is ALMOST…

...ALMOST...

...a gleam in his eyes. "Ah yes. How is Rosalie Hale?"

Something tells me I don't want to go there. "Are we done?"

He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand and turns to his computer.

Seriously, I cannot believe this guy has clients. I am going to go give him a very negative review on YELP.

And Yahoo.

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

The rest of Monday is pretty inconsequential. So is Tuesday. Except I have a message from Rosalie. She apologizes for the delay, she had a hard time getting the claim through. A claims adjuster will be in touch.

Wednesday finds me in the break room sticking my coffee in the microwave when Mr. Superiority Complex himself strolls in and starts filling his coffee pot with water from the sink.

I'm surprised he doesn't have people who handle these menial tasks for him.

"Hello," he says, but he doesn't look at me.

Before I've remembered that I vowed to spit on the ground the next time I see him, and every time for that matter, I've replied with, "Hi."

He turns to me, smirking slightly, and keeps talking. I see his earpiece flashing in the mess of bronze around his face.

He isn't talking to me.

"No, James. I said they wanted the higher deductible. Fix it immediately and refax." He clicks off the earpiece. "I'm sorry, Isabella. Did you say something?"

"I said hi. I thought you were being human for a moment and greeting me in a normal, human-like way. But I was wrong. Apologies."

"Would you like me to greet you in a normal way?"

The microwave beeps. I take my coffee out and face him.

"Really, Edward? I don't understand the game here. Is there an instruction manual... or something I could read?"

He doesn't miss a beat. "Yes, it was mailed to you. You probably didn't open it."

"No, I do vaguely remember something like that. I think I used it to clean up dog vomit."

I decide now is a good time to walk away. I think I made my point. I'm not 100% sure exactly what that point is, but I think it's likely I am out of snappy comebacks for the time being.

I hear him mumble something as the door to the break room closes behind me. I think I heard the word "classy," but I can't be sure.

Point to me? I have no fucking clue.

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

Then it's Friday. I pull into the lot and Edward's Jaguar is parked in my spot. Well, my spot and the spot next to mine. It's not like our building has assigned parking or anything, but I seriously park in the same spot every day. A gal down the hall with a purple Eclipse parks to my left and a silver Acura is always to my right. We like routine up in here.

But there is Edwards sporty silver Jag hogging my space. I contemplate rolling my Isuzu over his little toy car, but decide that might be construed as childish. I pull into the two spaces directly next to him, leaving about 4 inches of clearance between his driver's side door and my passenger side.

Fuck you too, buddy.

I hear from the State Farm claims adjuster who asks me some questions and says they will follow up with me on Monday.

When I leave work later, the Jaguar is gone, but there is a note on my window.

_That was close, Isabella._

I feel a little uneasy. Maybe I shouldn't be fucking with this guy. He doesn't seem all there. In fact, he kind of reminds me of the guy from American Psycho. Only way prettier.

Which is exactly why he thinks he can treat people this way.

I go home to my faithful dog and try to relax before my hellish weekend in hell begins bright and early tomorrow.

300 fucking people.

Just kill me.

**(((High Fidelity)))**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended.****

* * *

><p>Authors Note:<p>

Things start to get interesting here. (At least to me.) And we have some EPOV.

Oh and if you have never had Chicken Marbella - it sounds weird, but it is SO delicious!

Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p>I hate weddings. And when I say hate, I mean LOATHE. They used to be fun, when I started doing this, ages ago. Now it's all a blur of the same shit. The dresses change from event to event, but not by much. So do the tablecloths. There are always bubbles or sparklers or streamers. Sometimes the cake is good. Sometimes it tastes like packed cat litter with frosting on it.<p>

And fondant can go fuck itself.

I show up at Jane's Kitchen promptly at 6am on Saturday morning and Jane is already wigging out.

Jane is almost 60 years old, about four and a half feet tall with spiky orange and blond hair. She is a former realtor and home builder who hasn't seen much business since the housing bubble burst a few years back. She has been catering in the greater Seattle area for about 15 years now. I've worked for her for 10 of those years, since I was 17. Together we have seen it all. Out of all her staff, I've been around the longest. Most people don't stick with this kind of work. Because it sucks in a way you cannot imagine.

Catering is like Hells Kitchen meets Run Lola Run meets Bridezillas meets getting poked in the eye with a blunt object. You know, the kind that bruises your eye socket. When it's bad, it is the worst day of your life, when it's good, it's still likely to be the worst day of your life. But it pays pretty well and under the table, to boot.

Jane is a firecracker, a total gossip, and kind of a lush. She will lose her shit all day, panic, yell at you, and then collapse right after dinner is served. I love her to death, she is like a mom to me in a lot of ways, but it's better when we are on separate jobs. Like today. I have the wedding, and Jane is feeding a bunch of extras on the set of a commercial being filmed in Port Angeles. She likes to schmooze the movie people.

We start running checklists and I know today is going to be fucked. Jane is recapping her final meeting with the bride and I pull the menu off the board to study it.

_Cullen/Platt_

_Headcount 298_

Cullen?

I interrupt her. "Jane – who are the bride and groom?"

"The groom is Carlisle Cullen. You know, Seattle fucking royalty." Yeah – I knew. Everyone knows who Carlisle Cullen is. Washington's very own Bruce Wayne. He owns everything. "And the bride is Esme, half his age, no shock there, and a real Cuntessa, that one. Luckily you won't be dealing with her. They have a wedding planner, her name is Alice. I guess it's his daughter by a different woman. She is a good one, down to earth, not like the rest of them. Get this, Bella. He has 3 kids with 3 different women. Did you know that?"

FUCK.

I didn't know that. I don't really run in those circles. It didn't even occur to me that Carlisle Cullen would be father to Edward, Emmett, and Alice.

I fight the urge to flee. It's not like this is a situation I can't handle. I can. I just don't want to.

I really, really, really, don't want to.

****(((((**Hi-Fi)))))**

Carlisle Cullen, and his beautiful bride Esme, are morons. Or maybe it's Alice who is the moron, but I actually kind of like Alice, so I give her a pass.

September in Seattle plus expensive wedding always equals rain. So why anyone would plan an outdoor wedding for this time of year without a rain contingency plan is beyond me.

The wedding is being held on the grounds of Carlisle's Tudor-style mini-mansion. Admittedly, it's gorgeous, or it would be, if it wasn't pouring down rain.

It's one o'clock and I'm already soaked to the skin. The ceremony is at three. Hors d' oeuvres at five. Dinner at six. I probably put a bullet in my head somewhere around eight-thirty. Right after cake.

Maybe before.

I have spent the morning calling in every pop tent I know of. Jasper and my dad rolled in around ten and started setting them up and stringing them with the lights that were formerly wound up in trees. I have a crew of fifteen people rearranging chairs and place settings so that guests don't get dripped on during dinner.

A party rental company is backing a truck down the driveway to drop off space heaters and more tents. I'm guiding them in like a runway marshal. I give them the stop gesture and two burly teenagers jump out and start off loading.

I grab a fire-clicker and start making the rounds.

I am fiddling with the knob on a space heater that doesn't want to light when I see Alice Cullen head down from the house.

We've already spoken this morning, when I first arrived on site. She was surprised to see me. She asked where Jane was and I reminded her that Jane wouldn't be at this event. It was in the contract they signed.

"I didn't know you worked for Jane Voltaire," she had said.

"Sadly, I do."

Never sadder than today. Trust me.

Now Alice hands me a copy of the day's schedule. I look it over. Pretty standard. Except they forgot to include my bullet eating number around cake time. I will pencil it in.

"We have a problem." Alice says.

Another one?

But what I say out loud, because right now I represent Jane, is, "Ok, lets solve it." Alice smiles and I think my Vanilla Ice reference was appreciated.

"Our bartender is throwing up. We think, maybe, its food poisoning."

Fantastic. I look over at the bar where crates of glasses and boxes of wine are waiting to be set out and opened.

"No problem," I say. "I can have one of our staff do it."

Alices tense face relaxes.

"Thanks Bella. You're a lifesaver."

That's me. Life saver.

I see my dad waving at me and I look at my watch. He is going on duty. I wave back and mouth 'Thanks.' He gives me a thumbs up and heads off in the other direction.

I decide to put Jasper on bar. He is charming. And competent. And old enough. I grab him and we head over and start unpacking glasses, buffing them, and uncorking wine. He knows the drill.

We all need extra money these days.

"She works in our building," Jasper says to me, his eyes are on Alice as she hands a copy of the schedule to the MC.

"Yup. At Allstate next door."

"She's cute."

I look over at her. Alice Cullen is a waif-like ethereal nymph-goddess. Her skin is translucently lovely, and her eyes have a constant twinkle.

"Jasper, that girl… that girl is more than cute, she is out of your league."

He grins at me. "Maybe she likes to slum it on occasion."

I snort. "Why don't you go ask her? I'm sure that will go over."

"Nah, I'm going to play it stealth-like."

"Good luck with that," I tell him.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I look at the clock on my cell phone. Only about ten hours to go. "What a farce."<p>

"Maybe this one will last," Alice says as she paints on some gloss behind me.

"Right. Fifth time's the charm?"

"Sixth," she corrects.

"Fifth." Carlisle has only enjoyed wedded bliss on four previous occasions. "I'm a bastard, remember, sister?"

"Of course, brother. How silly of me."

I turn back to the window and watch the goings on in the clearing below. People are scrambling everywhere as flowers are being delivered and tents stretched between trees.

I see her. She is standing under some tree cover with a semi-circle of black and white clad help around her. She is ticking items off on her fingers as she runs through the schedule. I can faintly hear her authoritative voice as she says, "No cigarettes, no gum. Don't let me catch you with either. Otherwise Jane will fire me and then you have to work directly for her." Her staff chuckles. I guess some people actually like her.

"Why is Isabella Swan here?"

"Apparently she works for Jane Voltaire Catering. Who knew."

Emmett chimes in. "I did."

Alice and I look over at him.

"Indeed."

****(((((**Hi-Fi)))))**

Blah blah blah. Till death do you part. Sure.

From where I stand I have a great view of the back of my fathers head and all too much view of Esme's face. She looks like someone just handed her the moon. I look away. People are clapping.

Thank God. I need a drink.

I try to head up into the house to raid Carlisle's liquor cabinet when the photographer waylays me and I have to go pretend to be part of some happy family that exists only in pictures.

Carlisle pulls me to the side and tells me that "it's a party" and I should "relax" and try to "enjoy myself."

"Right." I say, and take off towards salvation.

It's a lot nicer inside. It's warm and it smells like something Mediterranean and fragrant. I peek into the kitchen, where Isabella Swan is moving at a speed at which I've rarely seen anyone work. And yet, despite her pace, everything she does is precise. I can almost see her mind churning down a checklist as she moves from task to task. Her dark ponytail shadows every quick movement she makes, slinging softly from shoulder to shoulder.

Her cheeks are flushed and her sleeves are rolled up. Her forearms are covered in tattoos. I never would have guessed.

Every oven in the kitchen is blazing and every iota of counter space is laden with food. The patio door swings open and three teenage girls with blonde ponytails show up in a line. Isabella smiles at them and hands each girl a plate of appetizers and a stack of napkins.

"These have nuts, Christy, okay? Emily, these are shrimp spring rolls, so they have seafood in them. And Maya, you have the vegan option. It's a hummus pâté, but with no meat. Got it? Remember to smile. Oh – Maya. Send Seth up, okay?"

I watch the blondness evaporate out the back door.

"What is that smell." I crinkle my nose.

Isabella jumps.

Nice.

"Probably the Chicken Marbella. It's got a very potent sauce." Her smile is gone but her tone is pleasant. She is all business now. And she isn't looking at me. "There will be filet of beef too, if you prefer red meat."

"I've seen the menu." My tone, as usual, is disinterested.

Her hands slow as she comes to a complete stop and looks up at me. I know exactly what is going through her mind right now.

_I can't believe I have to be nice to this fucker. _

It's all over her face.

Maybe I will enjoy the party after all.

****(((((**Hi-Fi)))))**

I pour myself some scotch in a water glass and linger in the house for a bit. I listen as Isabella gives instructions to a scrawny looking kid named Seth and then the blonde squad is back to refill their appetizer platters.

I head out to the lawn where ladies heels are sinking into soggy earth as they trample Carlisle's precious grass in their feeding frenzy for free alcohol.

Fucking savages.

The guy behind the bar with the lopsided smile looks familiar. The blonde bombshell he is handing a glass of wine to, her I know all too well.

I walk over. "Rosalie."

She turns to me with the sourest expression her beautiful face can wear. "Edward." She picks up a napkin, turns on her heel, and walks away. I try not to watch her ass as she goes.

She beelines straight for Emmett. Unreal.

I drain my glass and hand it to the fop behind the bar.

"What do you have back there that is single malt?"

He starts looking at labels. "Glenfiddich." I point to my glass and he pours about a shot into it. I just look at him. He fills the glass halfway and I head to my seat.

I check my phone clock. 6 hours to go.

****(((((**Hi-Fi)))))**

I wait to hit the food line until everyone else has already gone. Isabella has sent her staff scurrying off to bus tables. She and the skinny kid are alone at the buffet table restocking food for the wave of people that will be coming through for seconds. She is smiling, until she sees me headed her way. Then she is all seriousness.

I grab a plate and put a couple of slices of bread on it. I look skeptically into the bowl of salad and hold my plate out for her to serve me.

"Would you care for salad?" I nod. She neatly piles some greenery onto my plate and then takes a step to the left. "Chicken or beef?"

I might be a little buzzed. Just a smidge. I look into her eyes. They are big and brown. "I will have the Marbella." I emphasize the Bella part of that statement and her cheeks light right up.

She scoops some chicken glop onto my plate. "What is in this exactly?"

"Free range chicken pieces, kalamata olives, wine, brown sugar, capers and prunes." I use the base of my glass to push the chicken back into its chafing dish.

"I changed my mind. I'll have the beef." She scowls. It's kind of cute. I want to see her do it again. Sort of like how she answered the phone the other day… all breathless. Wouldn't mind hearing that again either.

We slide down to sides. The chafing dishes have magnets on them that look like little hazmat signs. One has a smiling cow face on it. What the fuck? Ah, I see, this dish has dairy in it. Fucking vegan bullshit.

"Interesting…labels?"

She is piling some cous-cous looking shit on my plate as she says perfunctorily, "Thank you. I made them for Jane for Christmas. I'm pleased that you like them."

"I didn't say I liked them. I said they were interesting."

Spoon in hand, she just looks at me. "Touché," she says quietly before setting the spoon in a cozy and walking away.

I drop my plate at my table and head back over to the bar. Alice is there giggling with the fop. They both stop laughing as I grab a napkin off the bar and wipe the Marbella off the base of my glass.

"Glenfiddich?"

"Please."

****(((((**Hi-Fi)))))**

Isabella is manning bar. I guess she sent the fop off to eat dinner. She is humming and sashaying and pouring drinks.

My glass still has an inch or so of scotch in it. I gulp it down.

Not anymore.

I walk to the bar in what feels like a reasonably straight line and plunk my glass on the counter in front of her.

"Are you finished?"

"No. Fill it up." I am having one of those drunken moments of clarity. The last gasp of mental coherence before total obliteration.

"Edward, I don't think that's a good idea-"

"I didn't ask for your opinion." I reach behind her and get the bottle myself, then hand it to her so that she can serve me. She reaches up for it and pulls the stopper out. She is pretty much soaked and I can see the outline of the tattoos on her arms underneath the wet cotton of her long sleeved undershirt. I can also see some color peeking out under her collar.

"I can see your tattoos. That is pretty unprofessional, don't you think?" I probably wouldn't notice them if I hadn't seen her with her sleeves rolled up earlier.

She doesn't answer me. She just pours.

"How many do you have?"

She sticks the stopper back in the bottle. "That's not really your business."

"You should have done a better job of hiding them then, shouldn't you?" For some reason the thought of her skin all defiled like that is suddenly very intriguing. "How many?"

"I can't give you a number."

Very intriguing.

"How many hours?"

"In the chair?" Fuck yes in the chair. I think my eyes answer that question without the need for me to say anything.

She glares at me. "A lot." I never really noticed her mouth before. I mean I noticed it... but I didn't notice the thought of it wrapping around my cock. I'm noticing it now.

"Do you like pain, Isabella?"

She quirks a brow at me. A very hostile brow. "Do _**you**_?"

I smile and sip my Glenfiddich. I can't help it. "Your discomfort is somewhat amusing to me."

She is all sarcasm. "How gratifying."

Oh yea. That is some mouth.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I look at my watch. There is still a lot of evening left, but it's almost over. Which is good, because I don't know how much more of Edward Cullen I can take. He's drinking like a fish, unhappy about EVERYTHING, and if possible, being a bigger asshole than ever before. Maya and Emily are positively terrified of him, and I think Christy wants to spill something strategically on his lap. Like hot coffee. Seth manages to be anywhere he isn't. Jasper just smiles and fills his glass.<p>

He is blatantly hell bent on being an asshole specifically to me. Which is only exactly what I expected.

He has managed to unnerve me several times already. The little exchange over at the buffet table reminded me not to try to get chatty with the man. I was walking by his table a little later with my arms full of dirty plates when he beckoned me over and set his full plate on the stack.

"You should eat something. At least the bread." Why I gave a shit is beyond me. I just knew that the bottle of scotch was half empty already. That is going to hurt later.

"What are you, my mother?"

Every time I try to be civil to him he makes me regret it. He really is a piece of work.

Then there was that whole exchange at the bar which was just… disturbing.

This family is fucking weird. The champagne toast was, uncomfortable, at best. Alice thanked everyone for coming, including the DJ and the caterers. Emmett passed the mic to Edward who took it and started slurring something about how we were all five-by-five. Alice immediately took the microphone and gave it back to the MC. The only people who really look happy here are Carlisle and Esme. And when I say "happy," I mean oblivious.

Thank God for the music. I've never been so enthused to hear the opening twang of I Gotta Feeling. Then White Wedding. Love Shack. I had a wager on Love Shack. Jasper hands me ten bucks.

I am so sick of all these songs, but it means that aside from the long clean up process, we are almost done. I can see the light at the end of this dark, dripping tunnel and I think maybe I will survive this after all. Half of the staff has already been dismissed and the other half is tucked away up in the kitchen, eating. I am humming along with Sir. Mix-A-Lot as I systematically move garbage from tables to trash cans.

Edward Cullen is sitting at his table, alone, watching the dance floor. I glance over. He is watching Rosalie. I was surprised to see her when she came through the buffet line. By the way she is draped over Emmett I would say they are a thing. By the way Edward is slouched in his chair, I would say he isn't too happy about that.

The DJ announces a couple of slow numbers and people start flooding back to their seats. But a lot of guests have already left. It's almost over.

Almost over.

_"It's late in the eveniiiiing. She's wondering what clothes to wear…"_

I stalk over to Jasper and hand him back his ten. He had money on Eric Clapton's You Look Wonderful Tonight. He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively at me. "Winner and loser, both," he says.

"Yeah, yeah." I turn and lean against the bar. Carlisle's face is buried in Esme's hair as they rotate around the dance floor.

"Over/under 3 years?" Jasper asks.

I look at them. He is petting her copper hair. There is something about them. It looks honest. "I say over. The ten?"

"Yup. I will pin it to my corkboard at work."

"You do that."

I head back out to keep cleaning. I am clearing bottle caps and paper napkins from his table when Edward reaches out and clasps my wrist.

"Bella." His irises look very green, probably because the whites are tinged with red. His eyelashes are dark at the root, golden fire at the tips. "Dance with me."

Like hell.

I can hear the opening notes of Clair De Lune by DeBussy and I know I will never forget this moment. As absurd as it is. The look of abject suffering on Edward's face almost moves me to pity. And I love Clair De Lune. Right now I would wager that he does to.

Something is breaking his heart.

"I'm… I'm not allowed to dance," I stammer out. "It's against Jane's rules."

"Break the rules." He pleads.

I almost give in. But this is Edward Cullen.

"Not for you," and I snatch my hand back and walk away.

****(((((**Hi-Fi)))))**

It's almost two am when I finally get home. Jake is fucking ecstatic. I am drenched and freezing to the bone. I just spent the last eighteen hours hauling food and waiting on douchebags. And I did it with soggy socks and the best fucking attitude I could.

I raid my emergency stash of self medication accessories and take a big fat Vicodin before turning my shower up to 11.

Fuck this day. It was absolutely the worst day of my life.

****(((((**Hi-Fi)))))**

Sunday is gorgeous. The sky looks like it was finger-painted by the gods, all swirly blue with glowing golden clouds and just the slightest breeze, carrying on it, the scent of wet dirt.

I get to go back to the Cullen's today. Yippee.

I head to Jane's Kitchen and swap my Rodeo for the van and head out. I honk for Jasper outside his apartment and he hops out with a big smile and slides in next to me. I hand him a cup of Starbucks.

"Hey Bells – Ooh thanks."

"Welcome."

"Lets get this shit over with."

"Hear hear."

"So I got Alice's number last night." I hold up my hand for a high five and he slaps it. "I feel bad for her now, look at this great day. Too bad the wedding wasn't today."

"That's how it works, though. If the wedding was today it would have rained today."

"True that." He is quiet for a moment. "I still feel bad for her though. Her family is fucked up."

"Word." I can't get the image of Edward Cullen's despair out of my head. I sort of feel like maybe I should have offered him the olive branch in that moment. He seemed so isolated, so damaged. I wonder if I had, would he have accepted it?

Probably not. He probably would have tripped me on the dance floor.

I probably did the right thing by saying no.

Probably.

"Honestly, Bella, that was the weirdest wedding I've ever worked. Those people… I just don't think any of them actually like each other. Remember the wedding we did back in June, the Cheney/Weber wedding?"

I nod.

"Those people loved each other. All of them."

He is right. Jasper has only been working for Jane for a couple of years, but we both worked that event and agreed that it was the best wedding in the history of Jane Voltaire Catering. Toasting went on for hours. People cried, people laughed. Love flowed through the room like the Sangria that was the evenings "signature drink." At the end of the night we left with bottles of champagne, big tips, hugs from bride and groom, and all their family.

It was really like two families became one.

That wedding made me think weddings weren't so bad after all. That real love is possible.

But the Cullens, I don't know what they love. Maybe themselves.

"And Edward Cullen. That guy. Does. Not. Like. You." Jasper is shaking his head.

I laugh. "No, he doesn't."

"It's a good thing you don't work in the same building as him or anything like that. You know, where you have to see him ever again."

"Ugh, don't remind me."

Jasper is quiet a moment. "Actually, maybe he DOES like you, and he just doesn't know how to show it. Like a kid on the playground, you know. He pulls your ponytail because he doesn't understand that he likes you. His emotions confuse him. Do I want to hit this girl, or kiss her? That kind of thing."

"Yeah Jazz, I don't think so."

But Jasper's expression makes me think he does think so. Kind of like he just hit paydirt. A 'Eureka!' sort of look.

I back the van into the mushy grass in one easy swerve. Jasper and I hop out and start folding up and loading tables. We have a system. Fold, roll, stack. Then I hoist while he lifts into the van. We get to do this several times today. 35 tables, 300 chairs, 8 pop tents. It all goes back. Then I'm fucking done.

I just hope I don't run into any Cullens.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>My head is killing me. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window.<p>

I roll my head and eye the almost empty bottle of Glenfiddich. Hair of the dog? Just the thought makes my throat tingle and stomach churn.

I think a shot of lead would be more effective.

I roll my face back towards Isabella Swan as she takes long purposeful strides across the minefield that used to be Carlisle's lawn. And there is that joke that Alice gave her phone number to last night. She was twinkly and bubbly and giggly. I hope she doesn't remember it.

I watch Isabella lift tables up into the van. Her back is to me and I can see her deltoid muscles and shoulder blades clearly under her t-shirt as she moves. For a smallish girl she is pretty strong.

Her slender decorated arms are exposed, and all that ink is still intriguing.

I want to see more.

I want to see all of it.

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended.****

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p><em>I am at a house party. Smoke is clinging to the walls and ceiling. So are vines. It's green and hazy everywhere. There is a bass line pulsing up through the floor and into my blood, churning my heart, beating it for me. I am here for a reason, something here belongs to me… something, downstairs. I am going after it… down the stairs and into the basement.<em>

_Into a garden. A dark sweltering garden with spears of sunlight stabbing into it from overhead._

_At a picnic table ahead of me, there is a figure, someone with his back to me. I walk over soft earth and trampled grass to get to him._

_"Edward?" Relief sings in my veins._

_I sit across from him at the table and hesitantly look into his eyes._

_Those eyes. Those tortured green eyes. It's all I see._

_The pain there is overwhelming. My eyes close. Then, laboriously, they open again. It feels like forever._

_"Hey, Bella." The torment in his face has vanished. He looks peaceful. He looks whole. And right now, I feel whole too. Like everything is as it should be._

_With gentle hands, he sets a glass on the table in front of me. It is half full of liquid sunshine. The purest golden shimmer I have ever seen._

_"Drink it," he says. And he smiles._

_I didn't know a smile could look like that. Like everything good in the world._

_Everything good in humankind._

_His shoulders are curled forward, towards me, his body language insisting that I drink it, to make him happy._

_And somehow I know that if I drink the sparkling concoction in front of me, I can never go back. Edward will own me. And I want to drink it. I want this smiling Edward with kind eyes to belong to me._

_I reach for the glass and it is cool in my hand. The golden liquid tastes like beatification. I am a saint. I have wings. I am flying._

_Edward is saying something again, I look at him. His mouth opens and he says:_

"_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!"_

I reach out and knock my alarm clock onto the floor. Still it berates me.

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

I manage to silence it somehow, by smacking my palm on it multiple times. None of the buttons make sense right now.

Must.

Wake.

Up.

I stagger into the shower and come out feeling sort of alive.

My dream is really messing with my head. I can't stop thinking about his face, the gentleness of it, the love there. It angers me, that my subconscious can construct something that felt so real, so right, out of Edward Cullen. He and I are not friends. In fact, he is probably the most narcissistic blowhard I've ever had to deal with.

That's saying something considering I work in real estate and have been catering for ten years.

I've had people use my apron to wipe filth from their hands, try to hand me their chewed gum for disposal, and the Coup de Grâce, order me to dig through an evening's worth of garbage for their lost keys. As if I would throw keys in the trash.

Seriously?

But I cannot ignore this persistent ache in my chest. It feels like bitter disappointment. It feels like I just missed the ice cream truck. It feels like when I was seven and my hamster died. When I found him, pink paws to the sky, a cold furry lump that used to be a twitchy nosed rodent, I felt this deep foreboding ache. It's that feeling, like, the world isn't measuring up, and there isn't a thing I can do about it; the feeling that some things are beyond my control.

I know that when I actually see Edward, which will happen eventually, he will be his cold, angry self. It wasn't such a big deal before the stupid dream, because I didn't have anything to compare it with. Now, real or not, I've seen what a kind Edward looks like. And it looks good.

Don't even think it, Swan.

My unconscious mind is probably reacting to the quasi-guilt that I carried around yesterday after rejecting his invitation to dance; some sort of cranial exorcism gone awry. Stupid dream.

Maybe I should call in sick today.

Yeah, right.

…

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

…

I rumble into my parking lot and Edward's Jaguar is nowhere to be seen.

I am both relieved and disappointed. On the drive over I had convinced myself that I could vanquish the dream via an encounter with him. You know, one where he is derisive and condescending, an Edward to squelch the kind eyes dancing in my head.

A frosty, unfeeling Edward, to remind me of the difference between fantasy and reality.

My cell phone starts chirping as I am unlocking the office. It's Rose.

"Hey," I say, throwing my bag and keys on the desk before punching my computer to life.

"Hey Bella. I wanted to update you about this claim," she says.

"Okay."

"So after your conversation with Edward last week, it looks like they did in fact cancel the claim. There is no record of that claim number any longer. However, the whole "no record" thing makes me a little uncomfortable. I've requested that you receive a confirmation letter in regards to the cancellation. If you don't have it by next Friday you should call me back."

"Can do."

"So, what did you think of the wedding?" I can tell she is smiling on the other end of the line.

"Do you want me to answer that question honestly?"

Rose laughs. "That bad, huh?"

"It was awful. But Esme and Carlisle looked happy enough."

"Yes, they did. I think Carlisle really loves this one. God only knows why. She seems a little daft to me."

We didn't get a chance to speak at the event, and I have some things I'd really like to ask her, but I don't want to pry. I decide to take a stab at asking one of my questions.

"Rose, how do you know them, the Cullens?"

She is quiet for moment. "Bella, do you have things that you don't like to talk about?"

Of course I do. Several things. "Yes," is all I say.

"Well, this is one of those things for me. Suffice to say, that apart from Emmett and, occasionally, Alice, I don't much care for the lot of them."

I see. "Can I ask you something else then?"

"You can. I may not answer."

"That's fine. I'm just curious. Why do they sell insurance? I mean, the three kids… Carlisle has to be, like, the richest guy in Seattle, right?"

"He may be, but that doesn't mean he is leaving any of his money to them. Carlisle is a complex human. He has standards for his… offspring. Meet the standards, get the cash. Saavy?"

"Like what kind of standards?" My curiosity is piqued.

"Well, I'm sure there are lots of small things, but the biggie is that if Emmett or Alice want to see any of his legacy passed down to them, they have to cross an income threshold. He won't leave his empire to spoiled kids who can't make their own money. It makes sense, in a capitalistic sort of way."

"And Edward?" I ask.

"Now I plead the 5th. Edward has… a unique situation. That is all I can say."

"Sounds like this family should be on daytime television," I conclude.

"They really should. Their drama is, well, very dramatic."

I laugh. "Well, thanks again Rose."

"No problem, Bella. You actually handled most of it."

"It's still nice to have you in my corner, all the same."

"That I definitely am. Keep in touch."

Puzzling.

A few minutes after I hang up with Rose, my phone rings again. It's Jane. She probably wants a recap of the wedding. I haven't seen or spoken with her since Saturday morning.

We exchange good mornings and Jane asks me about the wedding. I sugar coat it for her.

"It was a nightmare."

She asks me about the Cullen rain contingency plan and I inform her that it was nonexistent. I fill her in on how I managed it and she gets my back with a shrill, "I mean fuck, Bella, we are caterers not miracle workers!" I let her know that it all worked out despite the problems and she gives me some nice praise. She goes on to tell me that Carlisle himself called her this morning thanking her for the excellent job her staff did. How we went above and beyond and he couldn't be happier.

Good, because you never know.

Jane goes on. "Okay, well we are on again on Saturday. Early start, but early finish. And I probably don't need you on Sunday, so you can take that day off."

Best news I've had in a week.

"Can you do me a favor though? Alice Cullen has a check for the balance due. She said you guys work in the same building. Can you swing by her office and pick it up for me?"

Worst news I've had in a week.

You know that thought I had earlier, about how it would be best to come face to face with Edward Cullen? Yeah – that thought is totally gone. I know it will likely spoil the residual melancholy of my dream, but when push comes to shove, I am more than a little nervous about it. I just know that he will take one look at me and see it in my face.

That I had a mind-fuck of a dream about him.

And that never goes over well. Despite what I might have learned from 16 Candles, "I had a really bizarre dream last night and you were in it," is not a good opening line in any scenario.

I reason that his car wasn't in the lot, it's still early, he probably isn't even in yet. And if he is in, Jasper was right yesterday, I can't avoid seeing him. I just have to get it over with. I head over to Allstate.

I sigh and push the door open. As soon as it closes behind me I want to turn around and leave. I can hear Edward Cullen on the phone in his office. The texture of his voice recalls my dream and I can feel the heat already creeping up my neck.

If only the dream hadn't felt SO real.

I decide to come back later, maybe when it's more likely to be just Alice here. I about-face and am just about to open the door when I hear his voice behind me.

"Isabella?"

Fuck, damn, shit, fuck.

The heat from my neck is flooding my face. I take a deep breath and turn to face him. He looks windblown. His hair is mussed as usual and it looks as though he hasn't shaved in a couple of days. He looks good, gentler, somehow.

I probably look like a tomato. I probably look like I had a dream about him offering me his soul in a cup.

"Edward." Not bad. I sound cool.

He looks long at me before he asks, "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Is Alice here?"

His mouth tightens ever so slightly. "No. Alice is not here. She should be in after lunch."

"Okay, I will come back then."

"Are you here for Jane's check?"

Wow, he is being almost, _nice_. I take a step towards him. "Yes, actually. Do you have it?"

"Alice gave it to me before she left. Come into my office." I think it's a bad idea to follow him in, but I do it anyway. Part of my mind is knocking on the inside of my skull going _HELLO – just hand me the check._

It doesn't have to be a big thing.

I can see the check in an envelope on his desk, **Cullen Industries Inc.** , but he is pulling a checkbook out of his desk drawer.

I have a bad feeling about this.

"Sit." I don't.

"Edward, I have a lot of work this morning, can we talk later?" I want to run away. I am a chicken.

"This won't take but a moment." He has a perplexing look on his face. It's cordial, but with an undercurrent of mischievousness. "You did a fantastic job on Saturday. That couldn't have been easy, what with the rain."

Rain, feh. That was cinchy. The difficult part was the amazing Dr. Dickhead sitting across the desk from me, and his one-man-carnival of jackassery.

And then it occurs to me that maybe this moment is his olive branch.

Maybe my dream is making me pliable, but I think I am going to accept it. I sit.

I wave my hand in a gesture of '_it was nothing'._ Really.

Edward is scrawling out a check and I resist the urge to lean forward to see what he wrote in the pay-to field. I rack my brain for something to say. The best I can do is, "I spoke with Jane this morning. She said that your dad was pleased. I hope Esme was as well."

Uh oh, Edward is giving me the look. From under his brows, the look that says, _'Are you fucking kidding me?' _Maybe it wasn't an olive branch. His voice is rough when he replies. "Yes. _My dad_ was pleased." He rips the check out of the book in one clean tear. "I'm having a Christmas party. Mid December. I'd like to have Jane Voltaire do it."

Oh is that all.

"It will be an intimate affair, low key, headcount of about 30. I'd like appetizers and maybe bar service."

"That shouldn't be a problem," I respond.

"One minor detail though, and this one, I'm very particular about."

Oh boy.

"You, Isabella. I want you to do it."

I purse my lips and try to read his expression. His jade eyes glow. He looks like a self-satisfied cat. Something is up. "Why?"

He leans back in his chair and smiles, it's charming. "I've seen you in action. You know your shit. I have important people coming and I want the best. I think that means you." Definitely an undercurrent of mischievousness.

"I can't make any guarantees. Jane missed the wedding of the year when she turned your family's event over to me. She likes to… network. She may want to handle your Christmas party herself."

He leans forward again. "Deal breaker. I know Jane. She's… flighty."

Too true. 'Flighty' was a nice way of putting it.

I decide to dodge. "I don't really handle this side of things, the negotiations, the contract, that's all Jane. I am more… you know… execution, event. If you have a specific request, you need to work that out with Jane."

"Oh, I understand. And I will. But I would like to give Jane a deposit so that she ensures my booking." He hands me the check. I look down at it, not really seeing anything. My heart has suddenly started racing and I am trying to reign it in. Trying to keep my composure.

I have to say it.

"What about my… unprofessionalism? I seem to remember that being a problem for you."

I finally look up, and images from my dream flash in my mind again. It's not the same smile, not by half. It's devious… almost, sinister.

"I got over it," he says.

"I see."

The room is very still.

"What is going on here, Edward?"

You could hear a pin drop. Edward blinks lazily, then again. "Why don't we call it a truce… Isabella?"

I narrow my eyes and he responds with an eyebrow.

Then, before I can accept or decline, he hands me the check from Cullen Industries.

"Give my message to Jane. Have her call me."

He hands me his business card. Correction, he hands me two of his cards.

…

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

…

The next week flies by without much in the way of excitement. The cancellation of claim notice comes in the mail and I breathe a sigh of relief. Jane calls to let me know she's worked out the details for Edward Cullen's Christmas party and she's oh-so-curious about the special request. "Someone has his eye on you," she teases.

I scoff.

Edward and I pass each other in the hall a few times. I run into him at Starbucks and again at Barnes and Noble. He greets me with a nod and my name. "Isabella."

"Edward."

It's all very polite.

The weekend comes and goes and I have another job in the books. Jane owes me money, and the following Friday, it's collection time.

Cash. Lovely, lovely, cash. I separate out what I can spend and stick the rest in my Hope chest.

This money has a destiny, and it's a storied one. It's all going to _On The Br_Ink_._

Along with me and Jasper. And, apparently, Alice.

It's opening weekend.

…

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

…

My best friend Leah is Quileute, exotic, with wide set eyes and a full mouth. She keeps her hair in one long braid down her back. She has an easy smile, a quick temper, and a knack with needles. Needles dipped in ink.

This weekend she is cutting the ribbon on her own tattoo parlor, _On The Br_Ink_._

Leah has done all my work, and she is the only person I discuss any of it with. I know it sounds odd, because it seems like such a flashy thing, but my tattoos are personal. I don't like to talk about them. I keep them covered most of the time. I have a bazillion long sleeved high collar undershirts that I wear under everything. And I live in the Pacific Northwest, so there aren't all that many hot days where you would be uncomfortable in a long sleeved shirt.

Sometimes people want to get conversational with me, asking what this or that means, and I try to be polite about not wanting to discuss it, but people still take it the wrong way. It's crazy how often my reticence offends people. Like having tattoos means that my life is an open book for them to read.

Maybe I am unrealistic. But it's my prerogative.

It's the way that I want to live.

It's like when Rosalie said… _"Bella, do you have things that you don't like to talk about?" _

Yes, of course I do. This is one of those things.

"Nice tats."

"Thanks"

Let's leave it at that.

I know how this comes off, like I am a bitch, so be it. I just feel weird talking about myself. I am much more comfortable in expression. In symbolism, in music and shapes.

And honestly, most people just ask so that they can tell me about their own art. And I don't mind hearing their stories at all, so I often deflect long enough to get them talking. I'm a better listener than teller.

Lately, when people ask, I've been trying a new tactic. That tactic is to pimp out Leah. She is an incredible artist.

Jasper has work by her as well. So does Charlie.

So tonight I will be showing off. For Leah. She is having an open house mixer at _On The Br_Ink and some of her clients will be walking, talking portfolios. Including me.

I pick out a mostly backless plum colored dress with a braided halter tie and cut-off leggings in a lighter shade of purple. I strap on my watch along with some leather bracelets and a couple of silver bangles. I run a brush through my hair and ponder make-up. I decide to keep it simple, as usual, mascara, and just a smidge of smoke around the eyes.

It is one of those rare Indian summer days, all sunny and warm, so I just grab a sweater for later. Jake is curled up on the sofa looking bummed. I kiss him goodbye and then pass the roller over myself to pick up any residual dog hair from our hug, then lock up and start the Rodeo.

I really need to change my spark plugs this weekend. I've sort of been putting it off.

I will do it tomorrow.

I am rolling down Stewart Street, just a few miles from where _On The Br_Ink is opening, when my front end starts to shimmy. I hear a loud BANG, like someone just fired a bullet out of my engine. Or into it. I pull off the road and into the Mamacita Mexican restaurant parking lot just as my engine temperature creeps up into the red. I kill the engine and pop the hood.

I check my hoses and connections, but I know from the sound that something major just blew. As in, majorly expensive.

I'm pretty sure it was the water pump, either that, or the thermostat is on the blink. But I don't want to open the radiator right now and check it out. Gotta let it cool first. I bend over and look under the vehicle. Yup, it's gushing water and coolant everywhere.

I'm about to call Jasper to come pick me up on his way to Leah's when a silver Jaguar pulls into the parking lot.

No way.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>It's not that I'm stalking Isabella Swan, more like, keeping tabs on her. Getting to know her a little better, without her knowing.<p>

She drinks black coffee and spends a lot of time at Everyday Music browsing through used LPs and CDs. She likes blue, I think. Maybe she wears it all the time because she looks damn good in it. She and the fop that Alice is all hyped up about, Jasper, and a dark haired girl who looks like a dyke, have been watching playoffs at Buckley's, a sports bar right down the street from my condo. Her dad is a cop. With a mustache.

When I see her leaning under the hood of her unmistakably shitty SUV, however, it's purely coincidence. I was actually on my way to pick up Vicki for an early dinner. I debate rolling past without stopping, but only for a nanosecond. She is like a tractor beam; a multicolored, dark haired, pouty mouthed tractor beam. Pulling me in.

I punch out Vicki's number. She answers with a high pitched "Hello?"

"I'm going to be late." I hang up and swerve into the lot.

Isabella is straightening as I head towards her. Her back is partly obscured by a river of sunlit hair the color of Manzanita bark. It twists down, curtaining her arms. She looks contemplative. One rainbow arm reaches into the engine depths, exploring, she draws it back and taps her foot.

Then I'm rolling my down my window as she turns to look at me.

The expression on her face is classic. Her mouth is a perfect little 'O' and her eyes speak volumes.

Volumes of swear words.

I've never seen this much of her. Her arms are exposed, as is most of her back and quite a bit of her chest. Every inch of skin under her collarbone is decorated. I see fruit and flowers, birds, and musical notes.

Her outfit looks like a big purple bruise, a color that brings out the deep shadows under her eyes. It gives her a very heroine-chic aura. Like she knows about things unsavory, dirty alleys and desperation.

Really, I've never been attracted to a girl like Isabella Swan before. Earthy and uncultured, lithe and whimsical. I tend to gravitate towards the full of body, full of money types with highlights in their hair and flesh spilling out of the top of their shirts. Girls like Victoria Sutherland. Tanya Denali. Rosalie Hale. Chesty suggestive girls all of them, whose daddies have deep pockets.

Maybe it's time for a change.

"You need a ride somewhere?"

Her hesitation is so telling. She has no idea how to read me. I know she doesn't much care for me, I would venture a guess that she is just a little intimidated by me as well.

Good. She should be.

"I'm not far from where I'm headed. I will just walk. Thanks all the same, though."

"I don't bite, Isabella."

Yes I do.

She pulls her lower lip in between her teeth and worries it a moment before saying "All right, let me grab my bag."

After locking up her vehicle she slides into my passenger seat and turns her face towards me. Its dark shadows for eyes and a faint dusting of freckles over ivory cheeks and over the bridge of her nose. "I'm headed to 2nd and South Jackson."

I back the car up and spin it around in the right direction. She reaches for the door handle and grips it. "Do you need to call a tow-truck for your car?" I ask.

She waves her hand dismissively. "I will have it towed it to my house tomorrow."

"Shouldn't you take it to a garage?"

"Nah. I can fix it myself, and then it's just the cost of parts."

"What do you think is wrong with it?"

She scrunches up her nose and mouth momentarily before giving her diagnosis. "Water pump. Pretty sure."

"That sounds complicated."

"It's just labor intensive. The way Isuzu builds their engines, you have to take the radiator out completely to access the pump and thermostat. It's like this…" And she turns towards me slightly, crooking one knee up only the center panel.

She starts trying to demonstrate how the radiator blocks access with her hands and I look over at her.

A very different kind of dignity, this girl.

Honestly I have no idea what she is talking about. When something is wrong with the Jag, which almost never happens, I just cruise it over to Import Auto. But she seems relaxed as she explains how the thermostat works, in her element maybe. Not blushing, not fidgeting.

"How do you know this stuff? Did you go to school for it?"

"No." She is quiet for a long moment before she goes on. "My first car was a Datsun that had been parked in our driveway forever. My mom told me that I could have it when I could take it apart and put it back together again. _IF_ it still ran. She gave me a ratchet set and a Chilton manual. A few months later, she gave me the pink slip. "

"Your mom sounds like an interesting lady."

Isabella rights her leg and looks out her own window. "Yeah. She really was."

Was. So her mom is dead.

Before I can ask for details she changes the subject. "So, this Jaguar is a nice car. It looks like something James Bond would drive. Fast, sexy. I'm surprised you let me get into it actually."

"Why is that?"

"Well – you are so protective of it. I might… defile it somehow." She bends forward and peeks at the underside of one of her Chucks, her long dark hair waving around her arms. The carpet under her feet is spotless. Honestly, I was more worried about her hands than her shoes. They are mostly clean, except for some small smears of grime here and there from her fiddling about under her hood.

"Chance I am willing to take." I say, not looking at her.

I can feel her studying my profile and wonder if she feels the tension between us. It's like, when I am near her, the air between us gets heavier. Atmospheric interference.

"How, _GENEROUS_, of you," she says.

"Now you are being snide, Isabella. We were doing so well a moment ago. Can't we keep this friendly?"

"Frankly, I would be shocked to learn that you know the definition of the word."

I suck in my cheeks a bit as I try not to smile. "Friendly. When two people interact in the matter of friends. Good acquaintances. Partiality, Familiarity." I look over at her out of the corner of my eyes. One of her slim brows is raised in an 'oh-no-you-didn't' look.

"Partiality? I don't believe for one second that you are partial to me. In fact, hostile would be a better word. Insulting."

"But we have a truce now, don't we? So we can start over."

She makes a noise that I interpret as, '_Yeah right.'_

"I don't mean any offense, Edward, but, I feel like anything I do or say is just… ammunition for you."

"Ammunition?"

"Yeah. As in, bullets you plan to shoot me with later."

I shake my head, trying to be casual, non-threatening. "And how do I do that?"

She is not casual, she looks tense. Her neck is pink. I feel like I can almost smell the heated flesh at the nape of her neck, underneath her hair. The smell of determination and her shampoo. "It's simple. You aim, and pull the trigger."

I don't like the direction of this conversation.

Her voice is small when she says, "Be careful of the recoil though. Sometimes, it will surprise you."

I am very sure that we are not actually talking about weapons. I look over at her as I slow to turn onto South Jackson. She is looking at me.

"Will it?"

She nods. "When your defenses are down, you are a target."

Is she warning me? Is she threatening me? Is she telling me not to fuck with her?

"My defenses are never down." Not true.

"I believe you. You seem like you exist in a very enclosed, very guarded state."

I tsk-tsk and reprimand her gently. "You don't know the first thing about me, Isabella."

"You're right," she concedes, "I don't. And you don't know a thing about me. Which emphasizes my point. We aren't friends Edward. In fact, we are pretty much the opposite of friends."

"We got off on the wrong foot is all."

"You falsely accused me of hitting someone in our parking lot, and then tried to collect for damages."

"I was protecting the interests of my client."

"You were an opportunistic ass while you did it."

"Maybe a little." I give an inch, hoping to get more back.

She gives me an eye roll.

"A lot," she corrects. Then she points. "Drop me there." I pull to a stop in front of the tattoo parlor. I can see Alice's Beemer parked in a small alley to the side of _On The Br_Ink_ Tattoo and Piercing._ This dark haired, painted girl, who smells amazing, like heated jasmine and spice, gathers her bag and sweater; and I find, I don't want her to go. I want to spar with her a little longer. "Thanks for the ride. It was decent of you to stop for me."

I raise a brow at her. "I'm capable of decency, Isabella."

She holds my eyes a moment before she says, "Okay, Edward. If we are going to have a truce, start over, you have to stop calling me 'Isabella.' I only get 'Isabella' when I'm in trouble. 'Isabella Marie Swan' – you have some 'splaining to do. That sort of thing. You can call me Bella. I would prefer it."

"Ok Bella, you can continue to call me Edward. I don't care for nicknames."

She breathes out through her nose. I can tell she is warring with herself right now. "Ok. I am Bella, you are Edward. You won't take my parking spot at work, and I won't key your Jag. It's a start."

"You thought about keying my car?"

"Not seriously. I did have a delicious fantasy about rolling over it with my Isuzu." She smiles with half her mouth. It looks more like a smirk.

Speaking of delicious fantasies…

"I am so grateful that you restrained yourself," I commend her.

"Well, the car… didn't do anything wrong. Seemed cruel." Then her half smile blooms into a whole one, which adds a very alluring shimmer to her deep brown eyes. They twinkle under dark lashes. It's beautiful. _She_ is beautiful.

"I see." The interior of the car feels smaller than it ever did before. Heavy. I look over at _On The Br_Ink and I can see Alice inside looking out the big window. Sultry music is seeping out the front, making me think of Oriental rugs and incense. "Are you going to invite me to come it?"

Her smile wilts. She definitely does NOT want me to come in.

"I wasn't planning on it."

"Then I will say goodnight."

"Goodnight Edward. Thanks again for the ride."

"No problem, Bella. Enjoy your evening." She pulls herself gracefully out of the car. I lean across the passenger side to watch her walk into the shop; she has got some long legs, that girl.

I pull out of the space and head toward Victoria's. More than ever I feel disinclined to see her. She is so incredibly boring. Beautiful, but boring. It's as if she expects her beauty to be enough. Enough to preclude conversation, or action. As if she is a temple, and I only show up to worship.

I guess that is a fair assessment of our relationship. I wouldn't say I really like Victoria. She is shallow and vain. She has more shoes than Imelda Marcos. Trying to find the toilet in her bathroom is like a scavenger hunt… I have to wade through creams, powders, scents, sprays. The woman could never buy another beauty product and still manage to primp for the balance of her life.

She has a dog that she carries in a purse.

But she's easy. And the last thing I needed, when I met her, was a challenge. I just needed… a hole. And she has 3 of them. All willing.

…

**(((((Hi-Fi)))))**

…

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>Jasper, Alice, and I are leaned against the makeshift bar as Leah makes her way around, greeting people who are milling about the shop. Portishead is oozing out of the speakers and the lights are dim. Candles bedeck most flat surfaces, and the resulting atmosphere is very dark, very ethereal. The flame flicker gives Alice's face a supernatural quality, she looks like a devilish fairy, Jasper is intoxicated. But not drunk. He is full of Alice, enamored, engulfed.<p>

He really likes her. I can tell. His eyes follow her everywhere. I wonder to what extent Alice has noticed.

"So, Edward brought you here?" Alice is sipping something pink. It looks like the spiked lemonade punch that Leah has running in a fountain. I taught her that.

"Uh, yeah. He swung in like Spider man when my car broke down over on Stewart Street."

Alice nods. "He lives right over there. He has a swanky condo on 2nd."

Likely it's 1521 2nd Avenue. I know the building. I've done parties there before. I try to imagine what Edward Cullen's condo must look like. The place where he eats and sleeps, watches T.V. and… what? Broods, probably.

I imagine it is very, very, clean. With chrome everything. Black leather sofa. Lots of mirrors. So that he can spend time with his favorite person. Himself.

Sounds lonely, really.

I'm sure it isn't. I'm sure Edward has a bustling social life full of exotic flitting butterflies and warm destination resorts. I recall pictures of his vacation home in Costa Rica… or… Rio De Janeiro? I don't remember exactly where it was, but it was beautiful.

"You interest him."

That snaps be back to right here, right now.

"What?" I ask.

"Edward… he finds you interesting. He doesn't find much interesting, let me tell you. I think he has a hard time figuring you out. You definitely aren't his type."

I am trying so hard not to be curious and intrigued by this. "So, what is his type?"

"More… Barbie doll. You know. Plastic and blond. Lots of tits." Alice slurps her drink through a straw as she regards me.

"Yeah, that is… not me."

"Definitely not. You are different, Bella. That's what makes me think, this might end up being something more REAL for him. He needs to stop treating people like they are disposable. He needs to stop using people." She quiets. "He needs to put a lot of shit behind him."

I go all in. "What kind of shit?"

Alice hands her glass to Jasper who has been silently watching us during this exchange. "I need another one of whatever that was. It was yummy. Can you get it for me?"

Her wish is his command. Alice takes my hand and guides me to a little sitting nook out of the way.

"I am going to confide a couple of things to you Bella. Family things… things that aren't really your business, but I think may help you in… understanding Edward. Maybe… help you give him a chance. Especially when he is being an ass."

I nod. He definitely knows how to be an ass.

"My brother is a good person. In there, under all that… anger. He is just really damaged. And jaded. And mostly, angry."

"Yeah, he seems angry." I can't help but remember how he spoke to those Allstate people on the phone. It was almost like he separates people into categories: Tolerable:Intolerable, Worthy:Unworthy, and then he treats them accordingly.

"He is angry. In a lot of respects, he has a right to be. But enough is enough."

I wonder how a privileged kid like Edward, growing up surrounded by success, really has all that much to be angry about. And I know that isn't fair. Money doesn't solve everything, and often it creates more problems than it solves. But, from my limited experience with the Cullen family, I am just totally confounded as to how Edward could be so damaged. Especially when Alice is so… human. Normal. Kind-hearted.

"Okay, so in a nutshell, Edward is the oldest of us. Then Emmett, then me. Edward is 33. Emmett is 32. We all grew up with Carlisle. Emmett's mom, Sylvia, died when he was 4. Then Carlisle met my mom, and they got married. My mom raised the three of us for about ten years. Things were relatively normal. Except that my dad, Carlisle, well, he is sort of a rake. You may have noticed."

I hadn't, actually. I had heard rumors to that effect from Jane, but he had looked so taken with his bride that I had a hard time matching the talk up with the man. He seemed fairly decent to me, however, I am aware that things often look different when you are on the outside looking in. Family relations aren't always as they seem to be.

"I don't really know anything about him." I say, trying to be generous.

"Well, long story short, he isn't a _BAD_ guy. He just, had a little, fidelity problem when he was younger."

I laugh. "He is good looking AND wealthy. Go figure." Carlisle really is sort of a babe. And if he is a babe at 60, I can only imagine how handsome he must have been in his prime.

Alice crinkles her adorable little nose. "I know – right? So he screwed around a lot. Big deal. Well it's a real big deal to Edward. Especially when it came to light that the woman he thought was his mother, actually wasn't. He grew up thinking he and Emmett were full brothers. Turns out that is not the case. Turns out, Edward's mother is very much alive."

Alice pauses for dramatic emphasis. I am very attentive. I imagine for a moment what it might be like to learn that your mother isn't the woman you thought she was, literally. That your mother is NOT dead, that your brother is only a half sibling. Probably, it would be fairly weird, if not life-changing. I guess that would mean that Edward was lied to his whole life. Okay, that would probably make me angry. But, as angry as Edward, who obviously has contempt for the human race at large? I don't know. It feels like a stretch. I don't have all the details yet though, and I want them. I lean in to Alice to show her I am hanging on every word.

Suddenly all the lights come on and I see Leah trying to get everyone's attention. I turn to Alice, a little disappointed. "We can finish this discussion later?" I definitely want to hear all of this.

Alice nods and I head over to Leah.

But we don't talk later. Jasper and Alice disappear before I get a chance to find Alice again. Probably moving their personal party to a more private location. Good. I'm glad for Jasper. And for Alice, because Jasper is a really good guy. One of those guys that gets overlooked because he is kind, attentive, and kind of a goob. He collects Spawn action figures and plays the Saxophone.

Leah gives a brief thank-you-so-much-for-coming speech. Then she introduces her partner, Sam, who is also a tattoo artist. I blush hard when she announces me and a few of her other clients, inviting guests to approach us and have a closer look at her work. She also indicates that there are picture portfolios up front for folks to flip through.

So I spend the next couple of hours having my body scrutinized by strangers, moving my hair to let them more easily see the tattoos on my back. I get a lot of 'whoa's and 'beautiful' and 'so much detail.' People ask standard questions and I give vague answers that seem to satisfy. Tonight, no one is rude, no one is pushy. Everyone is very respectful of my body. One guy, a vaguely familiar kid about eighteen years old, hesitantly asks if he can touch me, having never gotten a tattoo, to see if he could feel it in the skin. I let him.

He looks surprised that my skin is smooth. "It looks like you should be able to feel it."

I give him an encouraging smile. He looks so young, so eager, and it is very endearing. And then he asks me the question I get the most. "Did it hurt?"

I laugh. "Yes, it hurts, but in a very tolerable way. Some areas are more painful than others." He looks frightened, as if someone has condemned him to the chair. "Are you thinking of getting one?"

He is adorable. You can see every thought dancing there in that open guileless face. No posturing here, no forced cool. "Yeah, but I'm nervous about it. My girlfriend says that some people pass out from the pain."

I nod. "It's not really the pain, it's the fear, I think. If you accept that it is going to hurt, and try to relax, it will hurt less. I promise."

"My mom thinks it's disgusting. She is old school. You know?"

"Well, everyone is allowed to self-decorate in their own way… right? I bet your mom sometimes likes a manicure or has her ears pierced… something like that?"

The kid smiles. "You should see her wardrobe. Her walk in closet is bigger than her bedroom."

I raise my glass to him. "Here's to individual choice."

He taps his coke can against my drink. "Thanks, Bella. I think, well, I think you are very beautiful."

This time, I am not the one blushing.

"Aw, thanks. I appreciate the compliment."

He gives me a big goofy smile, and as he walks away I realize who he reminds me of. Mowgli from The Jungle Book cartoon I loved as a kid.

When the crowd starts to thin out, I find Leah again and hand her a big wad of cash.

"Hey, first customer," she says with a smile.

"Hey yourself. You gonna finish this or what?" I spin around and bend slightly to reveal the blue and white plumage peeking out from the top of my dress, even though I know she knows what I am talking about.

"You will be sleeping on your stomach tonight, girl." I follow her over to her station where she starts pulling inks out of the cabinet, laying out paper towels, green soap squeeze bottle, gloves, rubber bands. "You have to go to the loo?"

"Already went."

"All right then, take your pants off and get comfy." She gives me her big radiant grin as she flattens the padded chair into a table. I slip out of my chucks and leggings and climb up.

Leah and I discussed this a few weeks ago. We agreed that I would be her first tattoo in the new place, but that I might have an audience for awhile. I would pay a fraction of what a regular customer would though, and that sounded like a worthwhile trade to me.

Most of the guests had gone by this time, but there were still a few loitering here and there, and when they see Leah and me, they come to stand just outside of her workspace.

She and Sam designed the shop with little corrals for the artists. Right now only two spaces are occupied, by her and Sam, but there is space for five artists and piercer. The corrals are basically open, but are marked off with low walls and swinging saloon doors. The whole place has a very Tarantino vibe, like spaghetti western meets Asian flair. Lot's of red and black and gold. Samurai swords mounted on the wall, a geisha looking back over her shoulder painted on the far wall, crossed pistols, parasols. It sounds busy, but it's actually very warm, very tasteful.

Oddly, I don't feel self conscious as Leah preps my right butt cheek. I told myself earlier that tonight I am just a canvas, Leah is the one who should be nervous. I know she isn't though. Her art is as easy to her as her smile is.

No matter how many times I've heard it, the first growl of the tattoo makes my heart race a little. I take a deep breath and wait for the sharp sting of the needle.

The nice thing about the pain of a tattoo is that it's intermittent. Leah has to stop to get more ink frequently, and when the needle leaves my skin, all the pain is gone. So, it's a series of pain and reprieve, pain and reprieve. Just when I feel like the pain is the only thing I've ever known, it's evaporated.

The design she is working on tonight is a big albino peacock highlighted in blue. The birds head peeks up in the middle of my back, its body takes up most of my right butt cheek and hip, as the plumage drops down my right leg. She has already done the outline and shading, so this session is color. She will probably do about four hours tonight. I look at my watch, it's just about eight o' clock.

Over the next couple of hours, people drift out and around ten o'clock Sam locks the door. Seth starts packing away the uneaten munchies. Seth will likely occupy one of these workstations before too long. He has been drawing forever, mostly tribal stuff, wolves and eagles in intricate designs. I watch them as they tidy up, Sam with her long rainbow colored bangs and pierced… everything. Seth, with his colt-like awkwardness transitioning into manly self confidence.

I feel very content right now. These people are my family. When I first moved to Seattle to live with my dad, his best friend Harry Clearwater, had invited me to come camping with him and his kids out at First beach, a few hours drive away, on the Pacific coast. Leah was there, and with her was a wild sort of energy. She had reached out to me, at a time when I was so lost. We became close, like I had never been with anyone else. Then, about a year later when her father died, it was I who pulled her back from the edge.

She met Sam a couple of years ago at a tattoo convention. When she told me about her, I have to admit, I was a little skeptical at first. Leah had always had this confounding crush on Shia LaBeouf. Yeah… from Even Stevens… so her switching teams was a little surprising. But, I couldn't deny the crackle of chemistry that always buzzed between her and Sam. And Sam is a total doll. Exactly Leah's opposite. Fair skinned, light haired, blue eyes. Raucous humor, potty mouth.

If Leah is a wild stallion, ferocious and serious, but happy; then Sam is a series of clowns climbing out of a VW Bug, flipping you off and then skipping away.

Somehow it works.

Sam comes over and peeks in. "Gaw-damn, Bella. You done mooned a whole hellova bunch of folks tonight! Yee-haw!" Her grin always makes me grin.

"Cool your jets, Sammy. I don't want Bella laughing. Her ass-fat will jiggle."

"Oh, thanks Leah," I say sarcastically.

Leah pats my non-tattooed cheek. "Fine looking rump for a Swan."

"Shhhh," I tell her, turning my face into the padded chair underneath me.

Sam hoists herself up on the wall of Leah's corral and starts peeling an orange. "So Bella, who was that guy who dropped you off here?"

I talk into the chair. "His name is Edward, he works in my building. Nothing is going on, no I am not interested in him."

I can feel Leah and Sam sharing a look.

Leah asks, "Edward, the insurance guy?"

"The very same," I answer.

"The guy who Seth says is quote-unquote 'a complete douchebag?' Sam interjects.

"That's him."

"So, you going to tell us why you arrived in his douchemobile?" Sam hops down from the ledge and hands me some orange slices. I take them and put one into my mouth.

"I broke down by his condo. He offered me a lift. Then he goaded me into accepting," I explain.

"How convenient, that he was there." Leah doesn't sound like she thinks it was convenient at all.

"Yup."

"So, what's the deal, then?" Sam is hounding me now.

"No deal. Big or small. Just a ride."

"Mmhmm. Did he ask you out?"

"No, he did not. He did however, sort of, ask to come in."

"And you said 'no'?" Sam looks surprised.

"Yeah, I said 'no.' That guy is, I don't know, off, maybe. A little… damaged."

"We are all damaged, Bella. I thought he was cute." The hum of the tattoo has stopped and Leah is looking at Sam.

"Cute, huh?"

Sam waves a ring bedecked hand. "Yeah, if you like that obviously alpha-male kind of thing. Which I definitely don't. I go for more, the alpha-female type." The tattoo hums to life again.

"Do you like him?" Leah asks me, her eyes not leaving my ass.

I don't really know what to say to that. The tattoo vibrates on, and finally I say, "I don't know." I think about it. I don't like him, but I feel sort of drawn to him. I don't know the reason, and that bothers me. "I don't like him," I admit. "But I do feel sort of, sexually attracted to him. I guess. He has a very virile… presence. It sort of messes with my head a little."

Another look is passed between Leah and Sam. And then Leah decides it's time to lecture me. "Be careful Bella. He sounds… like he could be bad for you."

"Don't I know it."

Over the next couple of hours Leah and Sam continue to banter. Seth chimes in occasionally. Then Leah wraps me in plastic wrap, locks up the shop, and we all pile into her car as she drives me home. I perch all my weight on my left cheek, leaning into the seat back. It's almost 1:30 a.m. when she pulls to a stop in front of my little bungalow.

My Isuzu is parked in the driveway.

What the fuck?

"I thought you were having your car towed in the morning?" Leah looks at me, her eyes questioning.

"That was my plan." I say and climb carefully out of her car. "Oh well, looks like now I don't have to. Goodnight, guys." I shut the door and head up the walk. There is a note tucked under one of my wiper blades. I pull it out and unfold it.

"_Bella, Didn't want the city to get it before you did. –E.C."_

Leah is still idling down at the curb. I wave and head inside.

When I flop into bed, stomach side down, I am still thinking about Edward. Wondering how Alice's tale ends. Wondering about his life… wondering why I feel like we are friends when my gut instinct is that there is something going on here that is more than meets the eye.

The last conscious thing I remember thinking before nodding off, is that I wonder what it's like to kiss a mouth as beautifully disdainful as his.

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended.****

* * *

><p>AN: This may be where some of us part ways. My heroine has some things to share. See you on the other side.

(Also - we are always in BPOV unless otherwise noted.)

Here is a link to the song playing during the drive to Bella's house: Cold by Evans Blue http:/www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=JnCLFg-vRyI

* * *

><p>Sunday starts later than I'd intended. I delay hauling my ass out of bed for two reasons. First, it's gloomy and dark outside. Second, Jake is all snuggled up next to me and I am SO comfortable. I pat him for awhile, scratching around his soft ears, and he licks my face. Then he licks my face some more.<p>

I stare out my bedroom window and ponder things. All kinds of things. My car, my cash flow situation, my mom, laundry, groceries, my love life, or lack thereof, and of course, Edward Cullen.

I don't like the draw I feel to him.

I don't like that the thought of kissing him causes my temperature to rise. I don't like the small eager hope inside me.

I don't like that I have to call him this morning about my car.

And how he knows where I live.

I am lucky in a lot of ways. I have my dad who gets my back, always. I have my friends, good ones. Leah and Sam are like sisters to me. Jasper, who, I know, without a doubt, would give me his last dollar if I needed it; would give me the shirt off his back if it was the last thing he owned. I would do the same for him.

And then there is Jake, always happy to see me, never judging me. He's my roommate, foot warmer, jogging pal and comic relief.

These people (and dog) make me feel whole, even though I'm not. These people don't see my flaws. They don't see what I see when I look at myself.

They see something way better.

I know, absolutely, that Edward will see every flaw I have, and I don't think I am ready for that.

And now I am putting the cart before the horse. Way before.

Miles.

Nothing has happened. Just some dreams, some errant thoughts, and there's that look he gets. A very predator meets prey, you are my next meal, kind of look. It unnerves me. And I think that's its purpose.

Alice said he was interested in me. But I can't help but feel like Edward is only interested in himself. Maybe I just happen to be a better mirror, at the moment.

And that is not a rabbit hole I want to fall into.

I've only had one intimate relationship since my mother died. Since I had my right breast removed to prevent the cancer that was forming within it. And I was seventeen when that happened.

One relationship in ten years. It didn't end well.

His name was Mike and he was mostly a decent guy. Nothing much to look at, cute in a way, but unexceptional. We dated for about five months. It ended around the time he started giving me literature on breast reconstruction and enhancement.

I am not doing that.

I climb out of bed and peel off my pajama top. I have one breast, my left, and it's small, but proportional. Nice even. Where my right breast would be I have a slightly twisted scar that is barely visible underneath my tattoos. I press my hand against it. I can feel it though, a ridge of scar tissue slightly thicker than the rest of my skin.

The tattoo covering my scar was my first. A lady in my support group who had had a double mastectomy and failed reconstruction showed me a network of roses drawn across her chest. My own tattoos stretch from the bottom of my ribcage on the right side, diagonally over my chest and up to my left shoulder. My left side is uninked from my armpit down, save for the arm and breast bone.

This is why I don't like to talk about my tattoos. Yes, I am a survivor, people tell me that that is a beautiful thing.

And sometimes I feel beautiful. Sometimes I feel feminine. And then sometimes I feel like an alien. Half woman, half deformed. Lopsided. I've spent ten years finding ways to be okay with this. And mostly I am. I am healthy. I am alive.

But it is still a struggle. A struggle to feel desireable, to feel whole. To look at myself without wondering if my remaining breast is a ticking time bomb. Wondering how long I will live.

Remembering the toll it took on my mother, and how her life ended.

Finding ways to hide in my own skin.

In my clothes it's easy. I have prosthetic bras and silicone inserts. Sometimes I just buy a padded bra and take the padding out on the left side.

Now, naked before the mirror, I pull my hair forward to cover my breast and my scar. You can barely see the asymmetry when I do this. I just look small breasted.

Alice said Edward's type was "plastic," with "lots of tits." So, as much as I may want to, it's probably best not to think about what his mouth feels like. That only ends badly for me.

In heartbreak, most likely.

I get dressed in some ratty clothes that are also comfy; a thermal under a t-shirt, and worn out jeans. I spend a little time on my hair, French braiding it back on both sides of my face, and then joining the braids into one at the base of my scalp. I wash my face, brush my teeth, and then go stare into my fridge for a few minutes contemplating breakfast.

Mostly it's condiments. Sometimes being irresponsible sucks. I should have gone and bought groceries yesterday, but I put it off and now I have no wheels.

I grab an apple out of the drawer, wash it, then I rummage in my purse for Edward Cullen's business card.

I look at my watch. Quarter after nine. He is probably up by now, right? I dial his number.

When he answers the phone I immediately know I was wrong. He is not up. His voice is thick with groggy morning confusion.

"Mmmmmelllo?"

I debate just hanging up, but in this day of universal caller id, that would look really stupid.

Epically.

"Hey," I say gently. "It's Bella. I'm really sorry if I woke you." I hate being woken up on someone else's terms. I get over it after a few hours, but initially, it will make me very crabby.

"Tsssokay." It sounds like he is fumbling around a little, stretching. I imagine him all twisted up in his sheets, with sleepy eyes and his usual bedhead. Pajama bottoms and no shirt.

Morning wood.

I put a hand over my eyes. Oh my God, Bella, do not think about that.

He probably has a really small penis I tell myself.

But that is not what I am picturing in my head, I am picturing a fucking porn star cock.

The word 'throbbing' comes to mind.

Jesus Christ.

I start disassembling my engine in my head.

He sounds more awake when he says, "What time is it?"

"A little after nine." I squeak.

"It's so dark out."

"Yeah, it looks like it will probably rain soon."

"There's a surprise. So, what can I do for you, Bella?"

"I just wanted to thank you for having my car towed for me last night. And to find out what I owe you."

He sighs. "I knew you were going to ask to pay for it. Look, I throw a lot of business to a couple of towing companies and I called in a favor. I didn't pay a dime, neither will you. Okay?"

"Okay… are you sure?" I don't like scales to be unbalanced. Regardless of what he says, I feel like I owe him now. I don't like that. Add that to the list of things about this situation I don't like.

He sounds impatient. "Consider it a reconciliatory gesture. To make up for my being an 'ass' as you so stated yesterday."

"How did you know where I live?"

Here we are talking like normal people and I have to go and ruin it.

He laughs, I don't recall ever having heard him laugh before. It may be another thing to add to the list. It sounds… very... derisive. "What, do you think I'm stalking you, Isabella?"

"Bella," I correct.

"Bella, then. I know where you live because I pulled your plate when I filed the claim against you."

Ok, duh. That makes sense. Time for me to fold my tail between my legs and end this conversation.

"Okay, well, thank you for doing that. I really appreciate it. See you around?"

"Do you need a ride anywhere?"

I consider his offer for the briefest of moments. No, I am not going to accept. I think I will walk down to O'Rileys, it's not that far, then grab a bus, or probably twelve, over to Lahote Salvage.

"No thanks, I've got it covered."

"Well, call me if that changes."

Uhhhh ok? More like NO. I will call Jasper if that changes. "I don't think that's likely," I tell him.

Edward makes a sound of exasperation on the other end of the line. "Alright Bella, I guess I will see you later then."

He hangs up before I have the chance to say anything else. I take a bite of my apple and peek outside.

Time to be motherfucking responsible.

Jake and I walk the two and a half miles down to O'Rileys where I buy some miscellaneous stuff including spark plugs. I stop at Starbucks and grab some coffee and a croissant on my way back home.

Jake makes himself comfy on the couch as I turn on my computer. I open a browser and pull up the web page for Metro transit. I don't really ride public transportation these days and I can't remember what line will take me out to the wreckers where I think it's likely I can find a decent water pump for very little out of pocket.

I already feel worn down. I really just want to wrap myself in a blankie and have a movie marathon, or read a book by the window. Enjoy this gloomy day inside, instead of out.

Buck up, Swan.

I walk a couple of blocks and catch the first of three buses that will take me to Lahote Salvage and ninety minutes later I am wandering around the lot looking at rows and rows of broken down, pathetic hunks of metal. Mostly sedans, some old cop cars, some mini vans. Not a Rodeo or Isuzu anywhere. Crap.

Then I see a Honda Passport tucked in a corner and I know I'm golden. Same exact vehicle. The hood is already popped so I pull my tools out of my shoulder bag and get busy. It takes me ten minutes to get the radiator out and I consider adding it to my stash. I pull out the water pump, the thermostat, and some hoses that look like they might have been brand new whenever this thing quit.

Wondering what else I can salvage I crawl under the vehicle. I disconnect the oxygen sensor from the exhaust manifold and debate pulling out the catalytic converter as well. Nah, it's probably toast.

I shimmy out from under the vehicle and set the sensor on my pile just as Paul saunters over from the office.

"Get what you need?" he asks.

"I think so. How much for the radiator?"

Paul looks at me. "Tell you what, I will cut you a deal." And he does. So I buy it. And then I am wondering what the fuck I was thinking.

How am I going to get all this shit home? I am full of duh-moments today.

I call Jasper but he doesn't answer. I don't bother calling Sam or Leah, I know they are at the shop where they are booked solid for the next three weeks. Leah is probably working on a huge Chinese dragon right now.

I call Seth. Seth is really, really, _really_ sorry but he is out in Tacoma helping a cousin move.

My dad is on duty, I hate bothering him when he is working. I weigh my remaining options.

I am not going to call Edward Cullen. I am not going to take the chance that my car parts leave any kind of smudge, smear or scent in his car.

I call Jasper again. Thank the maker, he answers.

"Bells?"

"Yeah. Hey Jazz, sorry to bother you."

"No, it's just that I was in the shower the first time you called. You okay?"

"Yeah, I need a ride. I'm at Lahote Salvage down by Sea-Tac. Any chance you can come get me and let me throw a greasy radiator in your trunk?"

"No prob. Gimme like twenty minutes?"

"You are the best. Thank you!"

I huddle under a tree and wait for Jasper as rain starts plunking down into the gravel around me. Paul comes out of the office in a black slicker and hands me a cup of instant cocoa. He apologizes for not being able to give me a ride himself, stating that he can't close the shop down. We make small talk for awhile, and I am really glad when I see Jasper's Subaru round the corner.

Lookie there. Alice Cullen is in Jasper's passenger seat.

She smiles at me. I smile back.

Jasper has laid out a saddle blanket in his trunk and we place the radiator on it. As we do, I look over at him and give him a tight smile and a raised eyebrow. His eyes get really big as he nods ever so slightly. I bump him with my arm and he mumbles something about her being the most amazing creature ever. We toss in my other acquisitions before I slide into the backseat and greet Alice.

"Hey you," I say.

"Hey, Bella. How are you?" God, she is almost sparkling with perfection and radiant happiness. I wonder, not without envy, what it feels like to be that luminescent.

Jasper and Alice do me another huge favor and swing me by Trader Joes. I quickly stock up on some essentials, including a bottle of wine and a box of dog treats.

When we get back to my house, Jasper helps me offload the car parts into my garage while Alice makes my groceries disappear into the cabinets and refrigerator. Then she unloads my dishwasher.

It's funny how easy it is between Alice and me. Like we have been friends forever, who happen to have just met. I wonder if that is how it is between her and Jasper. It sure looks like it. Maybe, that is just how Alice is, warm and loving, generous.

Jasper and Alice are headed to a movie, which is a good thing, because I was about to invite them to hang out and that would probably mean I end up accomplishing nothing for the rest of the day. Before they leave, Alice riffles through her purse and hands me a small envelope with my name on it.

"I'm having a Halloween party. It's the 30th at my loft. Belltown. Directions are in the invitation. Come as any literary villain. No costume, no entry."

A party where I will not be working? Count me in.

I make myself a sandwich and then spend the rest of the afternoon in my garage with Jake. Rain is falling steadily outside my open garage door as I gap my spark plugs, wrench out my old radiator, hoses, fans, clamps. I line them up religiously in the order in which I removed them. I take pictures with my phone as I go along. I hum along to Thievery Corporation and Sade and munch baby carrots out of a baggie.

I drain the oil from the engine into a pan before I realize I don't have any to pour back in.

Another duh-moment.

I am oh for three today.

I decide to throw in the towel and finish this tomorrow. I wash my hands and face with Orange Goop and call Jasper for a ride to work in the morning.

I pull the afghan off my bed and bundle myself up in it. Jake and I hit the couch with a milkbone and a glass of two buck chuck, respectively. Halfway through the Cardinals game my phone surges and lights up.

I have a new text message from Edward Cullen.

**E: How's your car?**

I debate not answering. But there is no point in being rude.

**B: Almost done. **

Which is mostly true.

**E: Do you need a ride to work tomorrow?**

Why the heck is Edward Cullen suddenly so hot to transport me places?

**B: Thanks anyway, but I'm covered.**

Nothing after that.

…

**(((HiFi)))**

…

When I run into Edward the next day in the break room, he nods at me. He says, "Hello."

I look at him warily, checking for the blue glow that means his Bluetooth is in. "Are you talking to me this time?" I ask.

He puckers his lips a little, which I think is his defense mechanism against smiling. "Hello, _BELLA_," he says, placing emphasis on my name. I can't help but notice his teeth. I don't know why, but I find them incredibly sexy.

No Cullen teeth for you, Bella, I tell myself.

"Hi," I say and open the tap to fill my coffee pot.

"I thought you weren't here today. Your car isn't in the lot," he says over the rim off his Allstate mug.

"Yeah, it's still at home. Not quite finished."

He turns and leans against the counter. "Can I give you a ride home?"

I really should turn him down. But I don't.

"You have to swing me by the auto parts store on the way," I qualify.

"No problem."

"I get off at four."

"Okay then." He turns and leaves the break room.

I will not look at his butt. I will not look at his butt.

I only peek. It's not a full look.

I spend the next six hours wondering why I am getting back into a car with that man.

Maybe because he smells so good.

Maybe because my skin tingles just a little when he stands close to me.

Maybe because I am an idiot.

…

**(((((HiFi)))))**

…

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I have Isabella Swan in my car again. She smells incredible. Like what I imagine sugar crusted strawberries sold in paradise smell like. Rich, oozing nectar, and exotic, surrounded by night blooming Jasmine. Her hair has been swept up into a ponytail at the crown of her head, emphasizing her delicate profile, exposing her slender neck. Soft little whispies of hair curl against the nape of her neck, too short to reach her hair tie, or too fine. Again, I have the strong feeling that her neck is where her scent originates, and I want to see it go pink.<p>

She is wearing dark slacks and a delicate high collared blue blouse over a fine cotton undershirt in a lighter shade of blue. A few rings adorn her fingers and I get to wondering if she has any piercings. There are a few holes in each of her ears displaying small silver loops, and a sparkling sapphire tucked under the shell of cartilage higher up on her ear.

My iPod is shuffling through a harder playlist, which I selected, if I am honest, in an attempt to appeal to Bella's musical interests. The combination of stompy bass and seductive dark haired girl is putting me a little on edge. For some reason, one I haven't quite figured out yet, I cannot get her out of my head.

I break the silence. "Did you run into problems with your repair?"

She doesn't turn to look at me, her gaze is still fixed on the scenery flying by outside. She seems very far away. "No, it went fine."

"So what do you need from the auto parts store?" Talk to me, Bella. Look at me.

"Oil." Succinct.

"Oil?" I ask.

"Yeah, motor oil. I drained my engine last night before I realized that I didn't have any." Her ponytail swishes slightly over her shoulder, pooling there, and then flowing over her back. Is she shaking her head at herself?

"Is that why you didn't drive in this morning?"

"Yup. Everything else is done." Her abrupt answers to my questions, and the constant view of her ear, give me the distinct feeling that she is trying to keep some distance between us. I want her to face me, I want to draw her out, and I am thinking of how to do it when the song changes and she almost immediately reaches for the volume control and turns it up.

_Hello, I'm your martyr, will you be my gangster?_

Then, finally, she turns her face to me, and I'm surprised at just how soothing it is to see those warm brown eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know if that is taboo in your car. I just… I love this song. I forgot all about it." The distance is gone, she is here, present and almost smiling.

"By all means." I love this song too, actually.

"Who does it? I don't remember…"

"Evans Blue."

She nods and goes back to looking out her window. With her eyes closed.

_When you hide, hide inside that body, but just remember that, when I touch you, the more you shake, the more you give away…_

"Such a melancholy song."

I nod, even though she isn't looking at me. I think of it as more erotic, than sad.

You like music." She says, still looking out the window. It's not a question.

"I'm human." I respond.

She faces me again, her ponytail sliding off her shoulder and falling behind her. "Are you?"

"Last time I checked." Then I smile at her. I know what my smile looks like, I can see it in her face. Maybe I am imagining things but I swear I can almost hear her heart speed up just a bit. Her lips part ever so slightly. I like that she isn't immune to it, even though she is obviously trying to be.

'_Fall into my eyes, fall into my lies…'_

She narrows her eyes, her long lashes tangling at the corners. "Watch the road," she tells me, and then turns to do so herself.

"Yes, ma'am." I turn my attention back to I-5.

"Do you live at 1521 2nd?" She asks.

"Yes, did Alice tell you that?"

"No, she said that you have a condo in that area. I assumed it was there."

"What else did Alice say?" I glance at her via my peripheral vision. She has her bottom lip between her teeth again.

"Nothing much. You must have some view from up there."

"Incredible. You want to come up and see it?" I turn and look at her, there can be no missing the suggestion in my tone.

She deflects, as, I am coming to understand, is her way. "So driving me home is the exact opposite direction of where you live."

I shrug.

"I live in Maple Leaf, that has to be out of your way."

"Not really."

Our conversation is interrupted as I pull into O'Rileys and let the car idle while she strides purposefully into the shop. She is back out in under three minutes with a huge jug of High Mileage Full Synthetic.

She deposits it into the open trunk and then slides back in next to me and I inhale her light fragrance once more.

"Do you know how to get to my house from here?"

"Sort of. I know you live on NE 92nd, but I don't remember the number." Playing it cool. I know exactly where she lives.

A couple of minutes later she points to a little white bungalow in the middle of the street. "That's me."

I am pulling into her driveway as she says, "Thanks for the ride," and pops the seatbelt from its closure.

I leave enough space for her to open her garage door and kill the engine. "Invite me in, Bella."

I am starting to love the way I can see her thoughts reflected plain as day all over her face. "For what?"

"Because I'm a serial killer, and I don't like an audience."

She just stares at me.

I raise my eyebrows. "I'm kidding."

"I know that. I'm thinking about it."

"Well don't take too long," I say and open my door. I hear her mumble something as I stride back to the trunk. I pull her motor oil out as she unlocks her garage door with a small silver key and hoists it up.

Her garage is small, but there is a good five feet of space on all sides of the car parked within. Posters and memorabilia of all kinds adorn the walls. I see Star Wars movie posters, the Eagle Nebula, The Cure, The Smiths, Led Zeppelin. There are San Francisco Giants pennants, tickets, postcards of the Golden Gate Bridge, Coit Tower and the Palace of Fine Arts.

I walk in after her, cataloguing the randomness. Queen, Tool, Ray Charles, Alice In Chains, Kate Bush, wolves and unicorns, and Harry Potter, of all things. Book jackets, CD inserts, patches, stickers, and pictures. I set the oil on the cold cement floor as she tosses her purse and keys on an old washing machine. Then she turns to me. "You want a glass of juice or something?"

I bite the inside of one cheek. "You afraid to offer me alcohol?"

And there's her blush. It is amazing how her expression can remain totally neutral while her skin flushes from fair to fire.

"Would you rather have a beer?" I can't help but notice how the fire does something to her eyes as well. They positively glisten.

"Yes, please."

"Wait here."

She climbs a steep staircase that must lead into the house, and when she opens the door, I hear an excited bark come from the other side. I wonder what kind of dog she has, probably not the kind that fits into a hand bag.

I quickly check myself out in one of the Isuzu's side mirrors. I run my hands over the hair above my ears, flattening it. I look good.

I lean against the front of her car and look around some more. She has a huge Craftsman tool box full of wrenches and other gizmos. On her dryer is a box of Snuggle and a Leatherman. A big bag of Pedigree Large Breed dog chow sits in one corner next to her water heater. I look up, she has posters on the ceiling too. Jimi Hendrix, Nightmare Before Christmas, Murder By Death.

The hood of her Isuzu is open and I look over my shoulder at the engine. It looks very clean, for such an old vehicle.

The door opens again and she emerges in jeans and an olive colored thermal. She hands me a Stella Artois. She has one too.

"So?" she says, coolly.

"So, what?"

"So, you wanted to come in. Honestly, the garage is probably as far as you are getting today. I didn't vacuum yesterday and I don't think you want dog hair all over that suit."

I clink my beer against hers. "I can drink to that."

She scrunches her mouth up a bit before placing the rim of her bottle to her lips. I watch her throat undulate as she swallows. A couple of very indecent images flash through my brain, mostly involving her, sans pants.

"You like San Francisco?" I ask, gesturing at the wall.

"Yeah. I grew up there." She pulls a small box off a shelf over the washing machine and starts pulling it open. She's taken her rings off.

I lean back against the dryer. "You grew up there? How did you end up here?"

"I moved here when I was seventeen." Ah, the short version.

She bends forward and sets an oil filter on the ground, along with her beer and a rag.

"Do you miss it?" I look at the Palace of Fine Arts print. I've been to San Francisco a few times, mostly for work. Despite what this poster looks like, I found it to be dirty, chaotic, and cold. Lots of homeless people.

"Everyday."

"Really?"

She kicks forward a mechanic's dolly that she slides partially under the car and then she meets my gaze. "Yeah. Really."

I have another one of those moments where I think this girl is not worth the effort I am making. It is usually so easy to get women to engage with me. Isabella Swan gives me push-back on almost everything.

But the feeling vanishes as quickly as it came, I want her. It's worth it.

"Why did you leave?" I ask.

She is quiet for a moment. "My mom died, so I came to live with my dad."

Queue interest, feigned. "Im sorry. How did she die?"

"Breast cancer."

That explains the pink bracelet she wears. "That must have been hard." The look on her face suggests that I have no idea.

"Yeah. It was." She squats low and pulls a large flat tub out from under the vehicle.

"How old was she?"

Bella Swan looks up at me from her crouched position and then slowly stands, facing me. Her brown eyes study me for a moment, and I get an unfamiliar tickle in my spine. I think I am feeling self conscious.

"She was 46." She says politely. And then, "Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Do you like discussing your mother?"

My jaw clenches. I sip my beer. "Not especially."

She looks into my eyes intently.

Point taken.

Then, with an, "Excuse me a second," she lays down on the dolly and glides under the car.

Her hand pops out and gropes for the filter. It, along with the rag, disappear underneath the vehicle. A few moments later she slides back out and is on her feet in an easy motion.

"So," she nods at my outfit as she uncaps the new oil. She sticks a big funnel into her engine and starts slowly pouring the viscous fluid into it. "What's it like wearing a suit that costs more than my car?"

I roll my eyes. "The same as wearing anything else."

"You don't worry about spilling coffee or BBQ sauce on it?"

"I eat carefully."

"Do you tuck a napkin into your collar?"

"Have dinner with me and find out."

She watches the oil flow into the funnel. I don't say anything, neither does she. A minute passes. She pulls her dipstick out and wipes it on the rag, plunges it back in and checks the level. Then she looks at me.

"Dinner? As in, like, a date, where you buy and then I feel obligated to put out?"

"Something like that, yeah." I step in a little closer.

She screws the oil cap onto the engine and wipes her fingers with the rag. "I don't think so."

"How about if YOU pay then, in that case I will be the one feeling obligated."

She laughs, a full throaty laugh that sounds like it escaped from her involuntarily. I fight the smile tugging at the inside corners of my mouth. She stops laughing and shakes her head. "Nice try, though."

"What is it, are you seeing someone? That guy you work with?"

She laughs again and shakes her head. "Jasper?"

"Yeah, him."

She brushes by me and opens the driver's side door. "Jasper has been bewitched by your little sister, didn't you know?"

Yeah, I knew.

"Moment of truth," she says as she turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life before settling into a very healthy sounding purr. Bella pats her steering wheel. "Atta girl," she whispers.

She hops down from the car and falls gracefully to her knees, palms flat against the ground, her face turned, cheek almost flush to the cold floor, examining the underside of the vehicle. Her ponytail splays out, and I can imagine all the dirt it is picking up. A strip of exposed skin appears between her jeans and her shirt.

Most of the exposed skin is white, unmarked, but on one side I see blue, white, and black ink. Before I know what I am doing, I reach out and push her top up another three inches. I see the graceful neck of a bird before I hear Bella start complaining.

"Hey!" She rights herself and tugs the back of her shirt down.

"Sorry." But I'm not. And she can probably tell that I'm not by my smile.

The car hums on.

She stands and gestures in the air directly in front of her. "This is my dance space." She steps into me and waves her arms around my torso. "This is YOUR dance space. Got it?"

"What?" I am laughing. Really.

"Just watch your hands, grabby."

I put them up in surrender.

She moves past me again and sits in her drivers seat with her legs turned out, feet hooked on the running board. She watches her gauges intently, I lean against the back door and peek over her shoulder. She turns abruptly, and her freckled cheek is very close to my mouth. Her eyes are right there, and at this distance I can see how the chocolate of her irises is actually a starburst of mahogany, topaz, and right against her pupil, red, of all colors.

"You haven't given me an answer yet." I say quietly.

She turns back to her dash. "No, I am not seeing anyone. Including you."

Why does this answer bother me so much? Is it just the rejection? Disappointment? Irritation. I am not going to give up. I decide to take a different tack.

"Do you not date men?"

Her eyes go wide. Really wide. "Are you… asking if I'm a lesbian?"

"More or less. Yes."

"So you think the only possible reasoning I could have for turning you down is either, A - I'm seeing someone already, or B - I'm gay?"

I lift a shoulder and cock my head towards it.

"Maybe I'm just not attracted to you."

"You are." I say.

More silence between us.

Then she whispers, "You sure are cocky, aren't you?"

Now it's my turn to give her my _'you have no idea'_ look. She makes a clicking sound with her tongue and kills the engine. The suddenly quiet garage seems very loud.

"Have dinner with me, Bella."

"No."

"Lunch, then."

She breathes out noisily. "No." But she is smiling. She will say yes eventually.

"Did Alice invite you to her Halloween party?" I ask.

She gives a small nod.

"Good. I will see you there." I tug her ponytail and head out.

"Hey!"

I turn and give her my _'I can't help myself'_ gesture as she reaches up and halves the hair of her pony tail and tugs it in opposite directions. To tighten it back up.

I fire up the Jag, check my mirrors, and zoom out.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

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><p>I spend the rest of the evening driving around, letting the Rodeo stretch its new legs. Making sure everything runs as it should. Jake hangs his head out the back window. What a dog.<p>

I am also trying to chill myself out a little bit. Edward Cullen just gets me worked up. After he left I had a really difficult time reconciling my feelings. I know in my head what it would mean to accept an invitation from him. My undies tell me that certain parts of my body have a completely different opinion on the matter.

So, there is my brain, saying things like:

'Danger!' and 'Whoa!' And 'Not a Good Idea.'

And then there is my biological clock saying things like: 'Gimme.'

And 'Want.'

And 'Throbbing Cock.'

And, if that wasn't enough, also, apparently, drooling.

Sitting in his car was so distracting.

When I got inside it this afternoon, the smell of him was all around me, and it was overwhelming. He smells like masculinity, this clean aftershave, soft detergent, spicy male scent. It made my heart hurt just a little.

Maybe I've been alone too long.

He opened my door for me. And then he shut it.

And I thought about birds soaring over the ocean. I thought about who might pick up Albert Puhols in the off-season.

I thought about the color of Edward's hair.

And now I am thinking about it again.

I hate that I cannot control the feelings he can obviously read in my face. I don't want this man to know that he affects me so much.

Carlisle must have some fantastic genes.

I honestly don't think I've ever seen a more beautiful human.

But he is cruel, Bella. Don't forget that. Just because he was being kind to you today, doesn't mean anything. Men like that… they don't change.

They don't change.

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>

A/N:

Still with me? I know some people don't care for imperfections in their leading ladies. I hope you still find Bella beautiful. A friend of mine had to have a double mastectomy when she was sixteen. I can only imagine how hard that is.

Anyway - What will Edward think? More discovery to come. Lots more.

Thanks for reading and reviewing guys. I appreciate all your kind words... and the not kind ones too. Happy Weekend! Muah!


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>A Short but Important AN:**

THANK YOU to ALL of you! My profile says I respond to all reviews, and I am so sorry, but when I posted that, between my two stories I had a total of about 40 reviews. I never expected to get over 300 reviews in one week, and I am blown away. And moved. SO moved by how you have connected with this story. Please know that I have enjoyed everything you have shared in your comments, even if I haven't gotten the chance to respond to you personally. Much LOVE. SFM!

I would like to send a special thank you to Jenny Window who started all the madness, and dragonfly336 for her mad beta skillz. You guys rock my socks.

(And thanks to RandomCran, PawsPeaches, NicFFWhisperer for the pimpage! Muah!)

Also, here is a link to the song playing during the Halloween dance scene. If you like to go full sensory, it really sets the mood: www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=1aVesAlrtNM

And without further ado...

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><p>"And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was greater than the risk it took to bloom." ~Anais Nin<p>

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><p>I love my backyard.<p>

This used to be my dad's house and he loves green growing things. It was one of the few things he had in common with my mom. It's a good sized lot, about a quarter of an acre, with trees throwing shade on a lush lawn bordered by ferns, agapanthus, and hydrangeas. When I was younger I would spend a month up here every summer, and the backyard was my fairy land.

Things were so simple then.

I was going to grow up to be an astronaut or a photographer for National Geographic, or at least a grocery store clerk. I was going to be beautiful like my mother, marry a poet, and live in Avonlea.

It didn't turn out that way. Not at all.

I am on my patio swing watching the breeze stir the changing leaves overhead, slowly munching berries out of a bowl in my lap.

Leah's mom is always talking to me about anti-oxidants and the latest miracle food to ward off cancer.

Sue works at a co-op and is constantly bringing me supplements and packets of things like living algae and bee pollen; telling me how I should eat a pomegranate every day or drink milk thistle tea. Hawthorne berries, quercetin, molasses, green tea, cherry juice. "No high fructose corn syrup!" she chastises as she raids my cabinets and reads the labels on all my food.

I am pretty good about what I buy and eat, but always, every time, I end up fishing food out of my trash can after she leaves. Earlier today she brought me a huge basket of farmer's market berries and then threw my Quaker oatmeal in the bin.

Seriously, Wilford Brimley cannot be bad for me. "It's just oatmeal," I had protested.

"It's GMO, Bella. I got an updated list at the store yesterday. Quaker was on it."

She shook the container of oats at me. "I just… I love you and this stuff scares me. The food industry doesn't care about you, or your body. Forgive me, but they want you to be sick, because then you spend money on drugs."

Then I got a mini lecture about Big Food and Big Pharma. Which I agree with, I just can't maintain the kind of vigilance Sue does.

"I got to go, baby," she said, and she kissed my cheek. "I have more berries for Leah and Sam."

After she drove away, I pulled my oats from the trash, wiped off the outside of the container, and put them back in my cabinet. Then I washed the berries and poured a very large scoop of sugar on them.

And now I am sitting here working on talking myself out of going to Alice's Halloween Party tonight.

But I know it's a wasted effort.

I am going to go.

I want to go, and that is what makes me think I should just stay home.

I sort of committed, though, when I had lunch with Alice and Jasper the other day. Alice asked if I was coming and I told her I was.

"Good," she said around a bite of cheeseburger. "Because Edward is coming this year. I usually don't invite him, since he spends November in Costa Rica avoiding Thanksgiving. Can't blame him for THAT. But this year, he asked for an invite."

She looked at me pointedly. My heart sort of splashed into my stomach a little bit.

After running the napkin over her mouth, she went on. "Anyway, you'd better come, Bella, because he will just torment me if you aren't there."

Come be tormented. How can I say no to that?

And then there is the prospect of seeing Edward Cullen in a costume.

I shouldn't go.

Who am I fooling? I'm going.

I spent most of yesterday trolling thrift stores for costume accessories and last night I braided my wet hair into about thirty small braids while watching HorrorFest on AMC.

And I took the day off of work tomorrow.

If I am really being honest, I want Edward Cullen to be interested in me.

But, while we are being _really_ honest, when I imagine him interested in me, I imagine the ME as this thing that doesn't exist. I imagine the ME he wants as someone who looks a little bit more like Megan Fox. Except without the weird thumbs.

Over the last week, I've found that my mental meanderings have ventured from simply kissing that disdainful mouth to much more. I find myself wondering what it would be like to sleep with him, and when I do, I encounter a paradoxical mixture of wanting it and wanting to avoid it.

Wanting him, and wanting to avoid him.

And just, wanting to be touched by someone other than myself.

Someone beautiful and even a little dangerous.

One of the reasons I dated Mike was because he had seemed so nice, so congenial. Without any machismo or evidence of overactive testosterone problems. I mistakenly thought he was sensitive enough to look past certain things, but what I learned was that he was just as shallow as anyone else. He was just too pretentious to be upfront about it.

He thought that his being quietly suggestive meant he was not being cruel. He thought that his passive aggressive behavior was not offensive. He thought that his sexual interests should be reflected in my lifestyle choices.

Dating Mike taught me that I shouldn't assume anything about anyone. That just because a man seems to value depth and inner beauty, doesn't mean he actually does.

Operating with that logic, I have wondered if there is any guy who is capable of seeing past something like this. And if there isn't, if a sensitive man doesn't find me attractive, maybe I need to try to just take what I want from the opposite sex.

Maybe I should stop stereotyping and start experimenting. Maybe an egotist should be my next experiment.

And by egotist, I mean Edward Cullen.

Because Edward seems to want me. And for the life of me, I seem to want him back.

Part of me thinks that getting involved with someone like Edward could actually be a good thing. Part of me thinks that his blatant insensitivity might push me out of my sexual hibernation by forcing me to confront my fears. Part of me is probably just trying to find a reason to go to dinner with him.

One thing I'm pretty sure of is that, at the very least, I can count on him not to hide his disgust or disinterest once we get to that point. And that is far better than being strung along while someone schemes about how they can convince you to change.

Of course, there is the possibility that it wouldn't make one bit of difference to him, the fact that I am not "plastic" and busty. Being really honest, I think that that is unlikely, but despite his past behavior, I feel like I should entertain that it is at least possible.

Or is that just wishful thinking?

I set my empty bowl to the side and tuck my legs up under me. Jake is in the grass at my feet looking at me as if he knows I am weighing life and death up here.

Somehow, I cannot imagine having _THE_ conversation with him. My brain always ends up replaying the exchange I had with Mike, the one where I said, "There is something you should know about me…" and he responded with, "It doesn't matter…"

But it did. It mattered a lot.

My sexual fantasies about Edward are similarly clouded. Although, while I can see him very clearly, I am more of a blur. A blur with her shirt on.

And I know that at some point, the shirt comes off.

When I remember that, I feel a huge sense of fear. I just can't go there, not with him.

And that makes me feel like a coward.

Furthermore, I have to ask myself what it is about him that affects me. If I acknowledge that it's because he is attractive then I am no better than Mike, really. If my physical response to Edward is based on his looks alone, then I am objectifying him in the same manner in which men objectify beautiful women. And I don't like that.

It kind of makes me a hypocrite. It makes me feel shame.

Every day I look at myself in the mirror and tell myself that I am a lioness, I am a warrior, I am more than a missing breast. My physicality is only part of who I am. Someone who likes me should like me _FOR ME_, and not just my cleavage, or lack thereof. I tell myself cliché after cliché. Sometimes they work.

The thing is though, if karma exists, then no one is going to like ME for _ME_ if I am chasing after a would-be male model who has the personality of a man-diva.

Really, apart from his looks, I don't find much more of value to Edward. And if I don't actually even like him, then what the fuck is up with my hormones going to DEFCON 1 whenever he is within five meters of me?

Plus, I have the very strong suspicion that Edward Cullen doesn't like me, either. Whatever is going on in his head, I have the feeling that it doesn't end up with us sharing bank accounts or buying matching luggage.

In fact, I don't even know why he is interested in me. We have worked in the same building for years and he never batted an eye in my direction before.

So, why now?

Of course, Jasper and Alice have worked in the same building for years and are all-of-the-sudden all about each other. It's sweet. And depressing. And not at all like what seems to be developing between me and her brother.

Now when I pass him in the hall, he says good morning. Sometimes he even holds a door open for me. The other day he came into my office and set a cup of coffee on my desk, like he had fucking ESP or something and knew how much I needed it right in that moment.

I am being tested, probably. That is what this is. A big fucking test of the Fuck-You-Bella-Broadcasting system.

Okay. Fine.

If I am going to go to this party, I think it would be better to be early than late. I don't really want to walk into a room full of people I don't know and have everyone turn their eyes towards me. I think I would rather be there already, integrated somehow, when Edward arrives. Already enjoying myself, talking to Alice's cat, or her fern.

Or hiding in the bathroom.

This is not a good idea.

This whole Halloween party thing was a lot easier for me to deal with when I thought I was going just to have a good time, maybe drink a little, maybe dance a little. Now there is all this weighty expectation putting pressure on me.

I start pulling the little rubber bands from my hair, forming a small pile in my lap. I head into my bathroom where I dig through a box under the sink for a bottle of hairspray I know is in there somewhere. I just don't use it all that often.

I find it and pick the gummy yuck from around the nozzle and spritz my hair several times. Then I start unwinding the braids, running my fingers through the strands that are now full of crimped volume. I pull out my brush and start turning the silk to straw as I tease my hair into a big chaotic mess.

I gather the hair on one side and pin it up, then spray the other side with white Halloween coloring.

Then it's makeup. Lots of powder and smudgy black kohl around the eyes. I powder my lips, too. It's not a very flattering look.

I tell myself I don't care. I never have before.

And then I wipe off the powder with some toilet paper.

I stare at my reflection. Damn it, Bella.

And then I powder my lips again.

I am Bella Swan. This is who I am. It's a good thing.

I turn away and get dressed quickly, lacing a cheap corset over a thin and tattered long-sleeved black undershirt. I shimmy into a big black skirt that I pieced together from several different materials, and strategically hoist and tuck certain areas to reveal a bit of stocking clad leg and thirty eyelet boots.

These boots are leftover from my SF days. They are huge and comfortable and they make me feel tough, like I can stomp anything. My confidence goes up a little. I slide into a black crushed velvet duster I found a couple of days ago at Red Light Vintage and grab my wand, my bag and my keys.

I'm going.

Jake's face says, "Stay." I remind him that he is the dog and I leave.

The drive over is fraught with indecision.

I pull up and park around the corner from Alice's building, kill the engine and vacillate for awhile. The light from a changing traffic signal fills my car with an alternating green glow, then a brief gold, then red. Then again.

And again.

And once more.

I look at myself in the rearview mirror. I am surprised by the beauty looking back at me. Yes, I have dark smears for eyes and pale lips, but somehow it's okay. Somehow, for once, my reflection is making me feel more confident, instead of less.

Fuck it, then.

I consider what I might need out of my purse, decide on a couple pieces of gum and stick them in my pocket. I get out, lock up the car and head over to the access door behind the flower shop that Alice's invitation directed me to.

I press the buzzer and Jasper answers. "State your name and occupation."

I laugh. "Bellatrix Lestrange, dark arts."

"Enter, comrade!" The door buzzes and I hear the latch click.

The stairwell inside is narrow and mostly brick, with concrete steps and iron railings. A failing light flickers spastically up on the landing. Music is surging through the walls and an electronic bass line is radiating up my leg with each step I take.

_There is something in my house, my house… it is the ghost of a long, long dead affair…_

I duck under masses of fake cobwebs clinging to the threshold and into Alice's apartment where I am immediately swallowed up into a big bear hug by Jasper.

"Hey Bellatrix. I am so glad you came."

He has been drinking. Jasper is a goofy, huggable teddy bear when he drinks. Smiley, loving, and very warm. I pull back from his embrace and look at him. He is wearing a huge spiked mask, cloak, and the ugliest fake teeth I have ever seen.

"You look positively horrific, Jasper. What… are you?"

"I'm the Mouth of Sauron. I AM horrific." He chomps his teeth at me.

"Dork."

"Look who's talking, Bells."

We bump fists.

"Does Alice kiss you while you look like this?"

He flips his mask up and wiggles his eyebrows at me. "She does more than that."

"Nice, Jazz." I scrunch up my face and shake my head at him. What a goob.

Then we are joined by Alice and my jaw drops. She looks even more radiant than usual. Her pixie hair is twinkling, in fact, she sparkles all over, and she somehow has managed to leave a trail of glitter dusting the floor behind her. She is all legs and cleavage.

"Tinker Bell?" I ask.

"Of course."

"But, you said… Literary VILLAIN."

"And you don't think Tinker Bell was a villain? She was a jealous little brute who tried to get Wendy killed. I never understood why people clapped for her."

"Well, because she is so tiny, she can only feel one emotion at a time. She couldn't help herself." I don't know why I am jumping to Tinker Bell's defense. I sort of always wondered the same thing.

"Hmmph, manipulative little bitch. Just goes to show how far beauty will actually get you. Apparently, if you are pretty and contrite enough, you can get away with anything." Alice smiles at me. And I believe her.

Because I am totally going to let her get away with that costume.

"What are you, Bella? You look like a gothic tragedy."

"Pretty much."

I tell her who I am and she tells me to help myself to alcohol. Then she gives me an encouraging, "You're going to need it, if Edward shows up."

So, his attendance is now in question. That is probably a good thing, considering I look like a gothic tragedy.

I tell myself I don't care. Again.

Alice sparkles off to greet more guests. The place is starting to fill up fast.

Alice's studio is a big open space with the only walls and door belonging to a water closet with a toilet and sink. Her bathtub, bed, and vanity are out in the main space, shielded by oriental screens and huge plants which feed on the light that must shine in through her floor to ceiling windows. The only structures breaking up the room are brick support pillars, and on them hang paintings, masks, and mirrors. She has some random statues that look like they belong in a garden; a Venus Di Milo in bronze, a dancer en pointe, a fountain of blown glass in the shape of vines and flowers.

Lights are flashing all over her studio, skittering through the smoke that floats against the ceiling, bouncing off of skeletons and masks. The DJ is the same one from the wedding, although this time he is going by The Reverend Harry Powell and he has the words LOVE and HATE sharpeed across his knuckles. He is spinning an eclectic mix of dance tunes and haunting melodies, all are hitting the appropriate nerve.

Jasper and I head over to the kitchen area, which has a granite island laden with alcohol of all varieties. I help myself to a couple fingers of Maker's Mark with a few maraschino cherries for fun and Jasper grabs a Heineken out of a sink full of ice and beer.

"So, Edward came by here yesterday," he says suddenly, popping the top and tossing it in the garbage can.

"Oh?"

"He was asking me about you," Jasper says as he leans against the refrigerator, taking a swig of his beer.

"Like what?" I sip my own drink, enjoying the pinch of the bourbon on my tongue.

"Like how long have we known each other, have we ever dated. If you were seeing anyone. What kind of food you like."

"Oh boy."

"Yeah. He didn't seem satisfied with any of my answers. I tried to respect your privacy, Bella. I told him to ask you."

"I appreciate that." I fish out a cherry and pluck the fruit from its stem.

"I may have mentioned to him that you are sort of weird about your food, though."

I smile. I am weird about my food. "Like, weird how? What did you tell him?"

Jasper's face looks amused. "I just let him know that you aren't a big meat eater. He seemed to think that was pretty entertaining."

"I bet he did." I do eat meat, occasionally. Mostly chicken. I hate to think what Sue would do if she found hamburger in my fridge. Probably start having groceries delivered to my house.

"And, it isn't really my business, but he had a very presumptuous attitude about you. Like he had a right to the answers I didn't share. I can't really explain it, but he made me feel, I don't know, protective. Please be careful, okay?"

Amusement is gone from Jaspers sweet face, marred though it is with dreadful costume makeup. He looks concerned.

"I will be, Jasper. I promise."

He gathers me up in another hug. "I know you will, Bells. You always are."

Right. I always am. Overly careful. Cocooned, really. Trapped inside this shell.

A bud that is afraid to bloom.

We untangle and I ask him about Alice. It took them all of a month to become inseparable. "It's crazy, Bella," he says, his eyes finding her in the crowd. "I have never felt this way about anyone… or anything. I feel like I can't be close enough to her, I feel like… I don't know. She completes me. She had me at hello. She…"

I hold my hand up. "No more Jerry Maguire references, okay? I get the idea."

He grins. He has the best grin. Then he points to his heart. "If this is empty…"

"I know, I know…"

"We live in a cynical world, Bells… a cynical world."

"I am walking away now," I threaten.

He grabs my hand. "I'm done."

I give him my 'yeah right' face and he says, "I swear."

"Aren't you supposed to be quoting Sauron… I mean, hello?" I gesture towards his costume. "Mouth of."

"I thought Tom Cruise was close enough. What with the Scientology and all."

I shake my head at him. He shakes his head back. "Yeah, I don't know what one has to do with the other, either," he says.

We both laugh.

"It's nice to see you so happy, Jasper," I say warmly, squeezing his hand and then letting it go. "And her too. I get the feeling she feels the same way about you."

"I do, too. Speak of the devil."

Tinker Bell skips into our conversation, trailing glitter in her wake. She is here for Sauron, and she drags him towards the dance floor with a quick apology to me. I watch her bounce seductively backwards as the Reverend starts spinning a remix of "Murder on the Dance Floor."

_Well I know, I know, I know, I know, I know… about your kind…_

I am looking around for a suitable fern to make conversation with, or an inconspicuous place to hide when I feel a small hand on my wrist. I am being hauled out onto the dance floor by a girl I think is Drusilla from _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_.

I wish I had thought of that as a costume because she looks fantastic, not at all like a gothic tragedy.

Of course, that is mostly because her cleavage is out of this world.

And she is a great dancer.

This is how most of the evening passes. Dancing with Dru, with Tinker Bell, and Sauron. Sparring with Moriarty and sharing _Harry Potter_ jokes with Professor Snape. Laughing with the Reverend and Pennywise the Clown. Hades and Norman Bates came here together, I think. I don't know if Oogie Boogie and Poison Ivy came together, but they are definitely leaving together.

All these villains are really, very nice. In fact, we are all having a blast.

I help Alice refill her glitter pouch. I straighten and pin Ivy's vines, which shook loose as she danced.

Maybe once, I glance towards the door. Or twice.

I excuse myself from the dance floor when I see that there is no line outside the bathroom door.

Once inside, I check myself out in the mirror. My hair has gone fairly flat now, and all that remains of my makeup is the dark eyes. My faint freckles are showing.

"Evanesco," I say to my reflection and laugh. Yeah, I didn't think that would work. I am rummy, I think to myself.

I wash my hands and press cool fingers to my cheeks before going back out and grabbing a bottle of water. I find a dark corner to chill out in for a few minutes.

"Okay," the Reverend says into the mic. "Let's see who knows it." And all around me there is the screech of a rusty door hinge, footsteps, thunder. And the howl.

The unmistakable beat of "Thriller."

I am watching the drunken comedy taking place on the dance floor, an uncontrollable smile making my cheeks hurt, when I notice that Alice is missing, and I quickly find her small form blocking her open front door.

There he is.

And my smile is gone. My heart speeds up a bit.

He is wearing relaxed jeans, a green and brown flannel over a cream thermal, and snow boots. His windblown hair has been pushed forward into his face and his expression is one of exasperation. Alice is pink cheeked and giving him a hard time. He gestures to the croquet mallet he carries and I know what his costume is.

Damn him.

I watch him surreptitiously from my dark corner as Alice relents and rolls her eyes at him. He smiles.

I thought I was pretty well hidden in my shadowy corner, but I guess not, because once Edward gets the okay from Alice he heads straight in my direction.

Double damn him.

He stops directly in front of me and, too late, I realize I've allowed myself to be cornered. He deliberately runs his eyes over me, sweeping them down to the ground and then back up to my face.

"Bellatrix Lestrange," he says. It's the same way he says 'Isabella Swan.' Very formal.

"Jack Torrance," I say back.

He smiles again. His eyes twinkle.

Double damn him, squared.

"What did you do to your beautiful hair?" he asks and reaches forward to twist a lock of it between his fingers.

Mayday, mayday. I am going down.

I twist my neck a tad in order to pull the curl from his fingers. "I teased it," I say, in a matter of fact tone.

"Yes. Teasing. Very effective." He is trying not to smile again. I am trying not to enjoy the way he pulls his cheeks in when he does that. His eyes are merry.

The damning has become exponential at this point. Orders of magnitude.

Circles of hell.

"Your costume is a bit of a stretch," I say.

He tugs at the flannel and shrugs. "Normal guy, alcoholic, possessed by evil…"

"Now that you put it that way, you aren't even wearing a costume. No wonder Alice gave you a hard time."

He gestures to the croquet mallet.

"You planning on bashing your own face in with that?" I ask.

"Only after my heart-wrenching redemption."

I give a small nod. The redemption of Jack Torrance is indeed heart-wrenching. "Does that happen tonight?"

"Why Bella? Are you eager for my demise?" His voice is seductive, despite the loud music.

"No, but your redemption would be nice." I really suck at the whole flirting thing. In fact, I think I am coming off kind of like a bitch right now.

"I'm working on it," he says, concisely.

Mmhmm. I have a hard time associating this Edward with the one I had to deal with initially. And I wonder which Edward is real, and which is the mask. Something tells me that this Edward is the mask.

But we'll see.

We're very close to each other because the music is loud. Tinker Bell and Sauron, and all the other monsters in attendance are dancing like zombies over Edward's shoulder.

I can smell him again, and the scent causes me to wonder what it would be like to bury my face in his neck, to run my fingers through the V of hair at the base of it. To press my mouth against his jaw… and other places.

I hope it is sufficiently dark in here to hide the twin flares being sent out from my cheeks. A red S.O.S.

"So you are Jack as portrayed by Stephen Weber then?"

He shrugs. "I am Jack as portrayed by Edward Cullen."

I look at him intently. His eyes are catlike, hooded, with thick brows. His face has a severity about it, while at the same time managing to be extremely sensual. "I pictured Jack as more of a red head."

"My hair is red enough."

"Barely. It's more auburn, I would say."

"Yours has a touch of red as well, in the sun."

"Yeah, it matches my face." Oh my God, why did I say that?

"I like the touch of red in your face."

There is no hope for me.

None.

I close my eyes and think about his behavior at the wedding, the phone call to Allstate. The way he talks down to others, the way he presumes to walk. Like he owns everything he touches.

It's no good. Heat like wildfire is spreading through me.

Why is it _HIM_ that makes me feel like this?

It occurs to me that this feeling is why I am here. It's irresistible, it's heady, it's dangerous. I have only ever felt it when he stands near me.

I open my eyes. He is so close to me, just watching my face.

"You like Harry Potter?" I ask.

"Not particularly."

"How did you know who I am, then?"

"Well, I don't live under a rock, Bella." He rubs the back of his neck with his palm, just as I had been imagining myself doing moments ago. Then he looks up at me and his face has a boyish quality about it. "And Alice might have told me."

He is endearing in this moment.

"Cheat," I say, hoping my playfulness comes across.

"Yeah," he agrees. He stands back a little and peruses me. Then he leans back in. "You know, I don't think I have ever seen a woman show such a small amount of skin on Halloween. Your outfit is positively horrifying."

"Well, it's Halloween, not stripper-fest. I prefer to go the scary route."

"Maybe you just can't hold the line in the T&A department."

We were doing so well, and then he had to go and ruin it.

That merry-trying-not-to-smile look? I'm not liking it quite so much now. I briefly wonder what kind of man says things like that to any woman, let alone one he is pursuing.

"You really know how to flatter a girl, there, Edward. Your observation is _so_ astute." And a little hurtful.

"I said 'maybe.' You should come away from the wall and let me get a better look. Then I can give you a solid opinion."

"Just take my word for it. You totally nailed that one," I say, dryly.

He looks down at my huge boots and tucked up skirt. "Nice legs, though."

"What am I, cattle? This isn't a livestock expo. I am not breeding stock for your ranch."

I am getting heated in a different way now. I need to chill out; I need for him not to poke at me.

"Easy Bellatrix – I think you look good. Very scary."

That is not a compliment. I mean, it would have been three minutes ago, but now it's a consolation prize.

My eyes sweep back up to his, ire boiling my blood, my mouth opening to give him what-for, when I stop. He is smirking at me. I feel my eyes tighten at the corners.

And I mentally kick myself. I am so stupid.

"You try to rile me up on purpose, don't you?"

"Maybe a little," he admits.

I nod.

"Honestly," he says, "I find nothing about a naughty she-devil, or cute cleavage-y kitten, scary. Or even that interesting, anymore."

He gives me a pointed look before going on.

"I don't really find Bellatrix Lestrange all that interesting either, but I am sure as fuck finding her sexy as hell."

I am pretty sure I just forgot my own name.

And how to breathe.

His eyes don't leave mine as he starts to lean forward. My ears are surging, and I can hear every beat of my heart as it pulses in my skull. He brushes past my face and places his lips next to my ear and asks me if I need a drink.

The softness of his breath, the slight brush of his mouth on my skin, sends all the blood rushing from my ears to the center of my body where it surges and growls.

Then he is looking into my face and what I read there is nothing short of full intent.

I feel like an engine that needs a new timing belt. I feel like a pint of ice cream left out on the counter. I feel like a top that is about to wobble over after a fast hard spin.

I feel like the opening line of "Don't Fear the Reaper" which has just rung out around me.

_All our times have come…_

I feel like I'm drowning in a pool of green and bronze. I nod. I definitely need a drink.

Or four.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

...

Edward and I are out in the stairwell. Edward is drinking a beer and I am not drinking my bourbon.

I am already pleasantly buzzed, if not slightly more.

I know where my line is, and I am not stepping over it.

The erratic light is dim and somewhat annoying, but it's quieter out here, which is good, because I can keep a little bit of distance between us. Music is seeping out of the cracked door to Alice's apartment and the concrete floor is hard and cold under my ass. I am sitting on my skirt which I bunched up underneath me, my jacket draped around my shoulders. Edward sits across from me, one step up, and I keep seeing his eyes wander to my legs which are stretched out in front of me, boots propped against the opposite wall.

Our conversation in the hallway so far has been really pleasant. I don't know if that is because of the alcohol involved, but he and I have actually laughed together a few times.

"So, you like Harry Potter then, I take it," he says.

I swirl my drink a few times. "I do."

"I sort of pegged you as the type who was a little more off-beat, a little less mainstream."

"Well, you shouldn't judge a book by its cover," I assert, hating that a cliché is my retort. Wishing I was more clever, then reproaching myself for the thought.

"Nice cliché."

"Thanks. It's fitting, in this case. Anyway, things that are mainstream… are usually mainstream for a reason. You know? Because it's good, because people identify with it."

"I don't."

"There's a shocker," I say, my tone light and joking, even though his is serious.

"Why – should I? Why do you?"

I sigh. "Well, I think the main reason is because Harry Potter is so relatable."

"Relatable? Isn't he a wizard?"

"Yeah, but most of what he has to face is stuff everyone faces. He has to stand up against other kids and their judgment of him. He has to face injustice and ineptitude. At times he has very few people in his corner. He is truly brave," I explain.

"But, he does magic, he has a wand. That has got to make life easier."

"I don't think so. Just like anything else, there are rules he has to comply with."

"I say go rogue." Edward _would_ think that.

"I don't think it's that easy. Besides, Harry is good. If he went rogue, that would be abuse of power. You know what they say, with great power…"

"Comes great responsibility. Yes, I know. I saw Spiderman, too." He is smiling gently, and it makes his face the sweetest thing I think I have ever seen. I close my eyes and wish for sobriety.

Inhale. Exhale.

Babble.

"There is a lot of truth there, I think. Even for normal people who don't have super powers. And in Harry's case, it means the difference between good and evil. You know, that is part of what is appealing in a story like Harry's. Bravery isn't the absence of fear, it's doing what you know is right, even though you are terrified. It's a choice. And I think, with most superhero-brand characters, you don't see them make the choice, or see their fear. They make it look easy, like fighting evil is just what they do. Harry Potter is afraid, and not just of paranormal magical things. He has to go up against all kinds of challenges, including death itself, in the end."

I stop. My hands, which have been gesturing in front of me, slow as well and I let them come back down to my lap. My eyes find his and they are full of amusement.

"Well, now I will never see it. You just gave away the ending."

My response is totally disingenuous. "My bad."

He takes a swig of his beer and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

I distract myself by asking, "Do you have a thing for _The Shining_?"

"Not really. It was just an easy costume." He leans back against the wall. "I knew I had to do something or Alice wouldn't let me in. She is a Halloween Nazi. When she says no costume, no entry… she means it."

"She said that you don't usually come."

"I don't. I'm here because you're here."

And I am here, blushing.

"Maybe I mentioned it already," he says, leaning forward, "but your blush is very becoming. I know now that you blush when you are angry, when you are frustrated… and when you are aroused."

"So any time I am near you, essentially." Oh my God, why did I say that? I press my hand over my eyes. "I think I need to stop drinking, now."

"Don't stop. I like you like this, with your guard down a little."

There is that smile again, the full intent smile.

"I'm done. I have to drive home at some point," I explain.

"I can take you home."

"You are drinking, too."

"One beer, Bella. I'm fine." His face is very earnest, even comforting. It would be very easy to say yes. If I were someone else, that is.

"I still don't think that it's a good idea," I reply, turning my eyes back to the drink in my hands.

"Why not?"

I search for a reason, anything except the truth.

"Because I haven't gotten a meal out of it, yet," I say, archly.

He laughs. "Who says I would try to come in, anyway?"

"Wouldn't you?"

"Definitely. And you would let me." He holds his hand out for me to take it. Cocky bastard.

"No."

"Relax, Bella and come dance with me. It's not against the rules tonight, right?" In his face is the implication that I owe him this, that I have owed it to him since the wedding. He stands up and looks down at me, offering his hand again.

I shake my head. "No, not against the rules." And I take his proffered hand. It is warm and slightly calloused, and he pulls me to my feet easily.

"Good." He jerks his head towards the music. "Maybe you won't let me take you home, but I am going to get a little bit closer to you, one way or another."

My neck is on fire. My stomach is dissolving into my bloodstream as Edward and I head back inside. I shrug out of my wrap and toss it in the pile of coats and jackets near the entry. He pulls off his own flannel outer layer and I experience a moment of odd disorientation, where I picture the two of us stripping down for purposes other than dancing.

He guides me into the churning throng, stopping at the edge nearest the wall. A song I don't recognize is winding down and Edward stands a few inches from me, just holding my gaze as it comes to a close. Everything around me blurs into irrelevancy.

Those eyes.

I have words ricocheting in my mind, and they make no sense at all. Something I read about a Higgs Boson, the excitation of particles above a ground state. Theoretical molecular matter colliding. A God particle. Maybe just a God.

The first plucky notes of "Lullaby" by The Cure starts in and he places one hand against the small of my back, pulling me against him. My body melts reluctantly into his and I don't know how I am standing anymore. Almost against my will, my hands find that spot in the silken hair of his neck… the spot that draws my attention every time I see him, and he tilts his head back slightly, pressing into my hands. Like a lion, tamed by my touch.

Every hair on my body is pulling forcefully away from my skin as he slowly starts to move. I am moving with him, it's subtle, it's intimate. It's all eyes and hips and both are making unmistakable promises to me. I can't get my breath, and I can't look at his face anymore, so I press my cheek against his chest.

I can hear the blood pumping in his heart.

Or maybe that is just the music. Or the liquor.

I feel the surprising touch of his hand on the back of my head, his fingers threading through my tangled mess of hair, as he holds me to him.

I think I am disintegrating.

_Don't struggle like that or I will only love you more. For it's much too late to get away, or turn on the light..._

I have never, ever, been held like this.

I don't know how such an intimacy can exist between us, given our history, but it does. And it is base. It is primal. At least, it is for me. I look up at him again, and perhaps my wonder is showing on my face, because I see what I am feeling reflected in his.

And then he kisses me.

Thank God it's dark in here, because as soon as his lips touch mine he is backing me against the wall. This is no gentle getting-to-know-you kiss. It's hungry and fervent, and I can feel a growl reverberating in his chest as he pushes what is obviously not a croquet mallet into the bone of my hip.

His mouth is soft despite his ardor, so hot, and the fever is spreading from his mouth into my bones, reducing them from rigidity to running magma.

I've never, ever, been kissed like this. Ever.

I feel like crying. I feel like I'm flying.

What am I doing here?

Falling, spinning, burning.

That's what.

I feel like my whole soul is blushing, the heat coursing from him to me and back again, raising blisters under my skin. I gently clutch his neck, holding him to me.

I may be cornered, but he is, too.

When he finally pulls away, the song has changed, and so have his eyes. Gone is the cocky suggestiveness, it's been replaced by need. From king to pauper, owner to beggar, his eyes beseech me.

"Let me take you home, Bella."

Aren't we home already? My thoughts are so jumbled.

I put a hand on his chest, trying to get my breath. I went from being cautious about touching him, to full ownership of his body, and all it took was one dance. If that is what you would call that.

"Let me take you home," he says again, "and let me come in…"

He runs two fingers down my hairline and around my cheek. Let him come in… the implication cannot be ignored.

I push him back, out of my dance space. I shake my head. "I can't."

"You can," he persists.

"No. I won't."

"If you are really holding out for a meal, I'll take you to dinner tomorrow."

Oh, I am holding out for much more than a meal. "It's not the food, Edward. I just, don't know you, yet."

"We have worked in the same building for years, you know me well enough, I think." He leans over me, one hand propped against the wall by my ear.

"I don't know you at all, Edward. I need more time."

"You are going to make me jump through hoops for this, aren't you?" His face has lost the all the sweetness it had earlier. I feel very wary. I feel like I am in over my head.

"This? What exactly do you mean by _THIS_?"

"THIS. What is between us." He gestures to the air that separates our bodies. "I know you're feeling it."

Yes, I am feeling it. At a fundamental level.

And I wonder how _THIS_ goes down. How he drives me back to my place, Jake bristling as he takes what he wants and then leaves. Then I have to face him at work on Tuesday.

No, that is not how _THIS_ happens.

I think he sees what is running through my mind because he says, "I am leaving for Costa Rica on Tuesday. You won't see me again for a month."

Why does that feel more like banishment than reprieve?

"Fuck and run, huh? Or do you call that a drive-by? Is that news supposed to encourage me to say yes?" I scoff. "Not likely." The nerve of this man, really.

"Woman, you are so aggravating." He looks down at me, and yes, the aggravation is all over his face.

"Because I am not taking my pants off in three-point-oh-six seconds? Really, Edward?"

"I don't see the big deal. You are an adult, I am an adult. Let's just have some fun, no strings attached."

But there are always strings attached, for me.

"I'm sorry, but I don't operate that way."

"I know you want me, Bella. Don't overcomplicate something simple."

"This isn't simple, not for me."

"Look," he says, running his fingers through his hair, "I don't do complicated."

"Then don't waste my time. Okay?" I fold my arms over my chest and glare at him.

He stares at me for a long moment. What hangs in the air between us feels like make or break. After searching my face and, I would assume, seeing the resolve there, he speaks. "December third. I will pick you up at seven. Wear something revealing."

"That's a Saturday, I work. December is busy for me."

"How about Friday then, the day before."

"I suppose Friday works," I venture, not knowing WHY THE FUCK I am agreeing to this. Probably because I have a small lake in my underwear.

Which honestly is the worst possible reason to say yes. I should just go get a vibrator and call it good.

"You suppose?"

"Yes. Friday, at seven. But don't pick me up. I'll meet you somewhere. And I will wear whatever I want. Just so we are clear."

"So it's to be a snail's pace then? Maybe I'll get to second base sometime next year?"

Half of second base, maybe. But what I say, because right now is not the time to have that conversation, is, "These are my terms, Edward."

"They sound miserable."

"Then why bother?"

He closes his eyes and says, "That is a very good question."

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>AN:**

I'd like to get all my yammering out of the way at the beginning of this chapter... so here we go. You can skip ahead if you so desire, but I have some important thank-you's I'd like to send out.

Married2TheCoach - **YOU** inspire me. In so many ways. I wish, for you, only good things. Great things. Mwah. **Thank you.**

Dragonfly336 - How did I get so far without you? I flail in your absence. You are fucking phenomenal.

And cryptically - to Edward, you are a continuing source of assholery from which I can draw.

Okay folks!

We are going to dive back in right where we left off. But from a different perspective. EPOV for the whole chapter - so settle in. Oh - and I think I should warn you, **this chapter contains drug use of an herbal nature.** Please to be leaving if that offends or upsets. You may have questions after this one... they will all be answered in time, I promise. Also, for anyone re-reading from the beginning, I made an alteration to a statement made in an earlier chapter (CH.5 to be specific). It was a very small change, but in the interests of full disclosure I thought I'd better let y'all know. If you want deets - I'm on twitter: (at)ajapersuasia. Muchos gracias, lovelies! Enjoy!

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><p>"I am just a worthless liar. I am just an imbecile. I will only complicate you. Trust in me and fall as well. I will find a center in you. I will chew it up and leave. I will work to elevate you, just enough to bring you down."<p>

~Sober by Tool

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><p>***EPOV***<p>

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><p>I open my eyes and look at her shadowed face. Her eyes positively glow with smoldering fury.<p>

How did I not notice her for so long? How many times have I passed her in the hallway and not given her a second thought? Hundreds of times, easily.

How is that possible?

One of her perfect eyebrows is lifted, and her smart-ass, beautiful mouth is opening, probably to cancel dinner or berate me for something or other, and I really don't want to hear it.

So, I kiss her again.

This is why I am bothering. My physical reaction to her is unprecedented. What began as a distraction has become a flat-out demand. What began as curiosity has become intrigue.

I really just want to fuck her and see if that gets her out of my system. Exorcise her from my mind. Move on.

Because I can't stop fucking thinking about her.

She smells like strawberries but tastes like cinnamon. Her mouth fits to mine like we've been kissing each other for years, her rhythm matches mine. Our tongues keep the same time.

_Dead I am the rat, feast upon the cat _

_Tender is the fur, dying as you purr…_

The music is loud, all around me, inside me, tangling with this burning fever. Infecting my brain… All I want to do is turn her inside out.

With my mouth still full of hers, I slit my eyes to look at her. Her thick lashes are downcast, eyes like big black holes in her ivory face. A gentle pink flush tinges the delicate skin of her cheekbones. God, her heat is contagious. It dances like a current from her to me. I breathe it in and exhale it back into her. Distantly, I realize that rumbling sound filling my ears is me, as an involuntary groan escapes my chest.

The twin black fans of her lashes sweep sedately upward as she catches me watching her. The hand she placed softly on my waist a moment ago, grips and rolls the thermal, tugging me forward, pulling me closer.

Yes, closer. That is all I want to be. Closer. Inside her body, underneath her skin. That beautiful, decorated skin. I cup the nape of her neck, letting my thumb rest behind her ear. The weight of her hair traps the humidity against my palm. It's soft and sultry.

_Dig through the ditches and_

_Burn through the witches…_

_And slam in the back of my_

_Dragula…  
><em>

We watch each other. Her eyes smolder with something else now. Heavy lidded... fucking-A. It's a look that tells me she's ready.

Wet for me.

All my senses are acute. The music, her touch, her scent. I can smell it, and all I see in my mind is her whimpering underneath me. Oozing that sugary pussy all over me.

For the first time in a long time, I feel like I could lose it. Right here and now.

Primal, that's what this is. Me Tarzan, you Bella.

My grip on her neck tightens. She mews into my mouth.

Fuck.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

It's late, very late, or early, depending on how you look at it. Most of Alice's guests have left, including the DJ, and the loft is quiet.

A few of us remain, talking in corners, laughing, waiting for cabs. Bella is scrunched against the arm of the plush red sofa, which was pushed into a corner earlier to accommodate the dance floor. She is talking to Alice's boy-toy, who is lounging against the chair opposite, most of his costume discarded next to him.

Alice, who seemingly never runs out of energy, is already cleaning up as she helps people out the door and into their taxis.

I fish my hand around in the sink, looking for a beer in the remnants of ice and its melt. I pull one out, a Corona.

That'll do. I grab the opener and pop the top as dark hair catches my peripheral vision.

"Hi." The dark hair belongs to a tallish olive skinned girl who could be called exotic, at best. I don't know what her costume is supposed to be, maybe gothic temptress or something like that. Something geared to the sexification of herself, with an appealing expanse of sun-kissed cleavage very much on display.

"Hi?"

"You're not wearing a costume," she says coyly. Second time I've heard that tonight.

"Nope."

"How'd you get past Tinker Bell?"

"Charm." Despite her obvious intent, I am not really interested in starting conversation. Bella is probably getting ready to duck out of here soon and my plans are centered on distracting her a little.

"I bet," she says, pouring a generous helping of Bacardi into a red plastic cup and then topping it off with some Coke from an open can. "You must be Edward."

"Guilty."

"I'm Lauren. I've heard about you."

Great.

"Oh, really?" My tone is blatantly disinterested. It's a little difficult to look at her face, gone slightly slack with drink and quasi-desire and generally very unappealing. In order to keep my gaze from hovering around her almost visible nipples, I don't look at her at all. Classic disengage maneuver. Usually, a few minutes of this is sufficient to discourage wannabe hump-buddies. Depends on how coherent they are.

"Yes, really." She giggles.

Great.

I give her a tight smile and walk away, heading towards the couch where my true quarry awaits.

I take a seat close to Bella and she turns towards me, familiar dark eyes warming when they fall on me. Her mouth is still swollen from earlier and damn… It looks good on her.

The couch depresses next to me as Lauren, who having followed me like a stray, makes room for herself on the small sofa by practically sitting in my lap.

Fuck.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Lauren is really starting to annoy me.

She smells like old wet raisin bran and she keeps 'accidentally' rubbing her tits on my arm as she tries to engage me in conversation. All of her body language tells me she wants me to take her home and stop her incessant giggling by sticking my cock in her mouth.

And I'm tempted. But only because her laugh is so fucking obnoxious. She thinks every fucking thing I say is the funniest, most clever, MOST interesting thing she's ever heard. Which is really saying something since I've resorted to monosyllable responses.

Honestly, I don't know how it is that she hasn't gotten the hint yet. I am so tired of being polite, so therefore I'm really not even bothering anymore, if I ever was.

She better get it soon or else I am going to lose my shit and tell her to back the fuck off.

Which is somewhat surprising to me, because a month ago, I likely would have taken her home and banged her without ever learning her name.

But now, whenever I close my eyes to facilitate imagery of a debauched nature, it's Bella's rainbow skin and dark hair that I see. And her fucking mouth.

Every fucking time.

And I know that a poor substitute will be exactly that. Poor. A substitute. Not worth it.

Alice skips over and opens her palm in front of me. In her hand is a small blown glass pipe full of furry green weed and a lighter. Before I can accept or decline, Lauren's shrill voice coos out and she reaches into Alice's outstretched hand for the pipe.

She fires it up, hands it to me, and I hit it. I pass it to Bella. She's in the middle of a conversation with Jasper and just shakes her head.

"What, you don't smoke weed?" I interrupt.

"I do, occasionally. Not often."

"Not tonight?"

She looks into my eyes. "Not tonight."

I hand the pipe to Jasper who sits up and takes it. I watch him. He is one of those people who have an apparent disconnect between brain and hands, because he sits there, holding the fucking thing, continuing his conversation with Bella, like there aren't other people waiting on him.

"The thing is," Jasper is saying to Bella, "George Lucas destroyed the whole Han Solo character arc when he made Greedo fire first." Bella nods intently, apparently agreeing with him entirely. I get the feeling they have had this discussion before. "He is supposed to start the story as a no-good smuggler, and then slowly evolve."

"Yeah, that one little change totally invalidated his redemption at the end of Four when he comes swooping in to save Luke's ass," Bella chimes in.

"Exactly. And it's not like Georgie couldn't have had Greedo firing first originally. It wasn't like it was a constriction of the special effects or-""

I interrupt with an "Ahem" and a gesture that obviously means hit it or quit it. Why anyone gives this much of a shit about Star Wars is beyond me.

"Oh, sorry." Jasper sucks in a lungful of smoke and hands the pipe to me. I hand it to Lauren. She purposefully grazes my hand with hers. Her eyes are screaming 'bedroom' at me.

I try not to laugh as she wraps her lips suggestively around the pipe and inhales, chokes, and starts a coughing fit that is guaranteed to make her face red and her throat raw. I wriggle the pipe out of her hand before she breaks it.

Alice plunks herself down in an overstuffed chair, resting her dainty little feet on Jaspers lap and reaches out. I hand her the pipe as Lauren wheezes next to me. "Oh. Em. Gee. I am so high now."

Marijuana obviously turns Lauren into slutty-putty because she is way up in my personal space now, her small hands fiddling with my buttons, her large breasts churning against my shoulder. She insists on touching my hair despite the fact that I am batting her hands away each time she tries. The damp cereal smell is all around me, I think it's exacerbated by the affects of the drugs, making it cling resolutely to the inside of my nose and skull. I am trying not to inhale, but I can still taste it.

I give Alice a look that says, "Who is this broad and why is she here?" Then I add an eyebrow. Translated: "Call this bitch a cab and get her off my jock."

Alice hits the pipe and hands it to me before reaching behind her for her cell. "Hi, yeah, can you send me another one? How long? Okay, thanks." Alice ends the call and looks at me. "Twenty minutes. Sorry."

Lauren giggles and presses her face into my ear. "That's okay; we can make it that long."

"I'm sorry do I know you?" I ask. She just giggles.

This girl is totally deluded. I see Bella watching me and she is almost smiling. I take Lauren by her shoulders and push her away from me. "This is my dance space." I tell her. "Stay out of it."

Bella laughs. It's a beautiful sound after Lauren's maniacal chirping.

She leans forward and looks past me at Lauren. "Spaghetti arms."

"Whaaat?" Lauren looks stoned out of her brain. In fact, I'm pretty sure she is cross fading right now, because she was drinking Rum and Coke when she first hit the couch.

I turn back to Bella. She looks stone cold sober. Tired, but sober. Her expression is amused and I adjust my seat to close a little bit of distance between us.

She has one leg pulled up into her chest and the other bent beneath her. Her boots are flopped over in a corner of the room and her stocking clad toes give her a very girlish vulnerability.

She smiles at me. It's like a hot house flower folding open under time lapse photography. I love how this smile is for me, whether it's in camaraderie or sympathy, or just because.

And I smile back.

Then I feel something tickling my ear. Bella's sightline shifts to my right and I know Lauren is renewing her assault. Bella's eyes twinkle at me before turning back to Jasper who is still talking about Star Wars.

I am on my own then.

"Hey Dru," Alice says, "Don't make me stake you. Get off him, jeez. Didn't you see him all over Bellatrix earlier? He's not interested."

Dru? Wait who? Lauren leans forward and cuts her gaze at Bella who is mid-sentence, saying something I don't understand about Endor and Ewoks. She stops and turns towards me, her hands still in the air.

"Yes?" Bella asks simply, looking past me.

"You?" I can hear the sneer in the voice of the girl behind me, whatever her name is…

Bella looks aloof, uncaring. "Me what?"

Lauren doesn't clarify. Instead she laughs. It's not the minx-like giggle from earlier; it's a shrill vitriolic sound.

"Her?" She finds this hilarious. In fact, she is laughing so hard she is snorting.

"Oh. Em. Gee. She is not his type."

How does this bimbo know anything about my type?

Maybe Bella is too tired to blush, but I can see the vexation in her eyes. And something more, like she doesn't disagree. Like the clock has struck twelve and Prince Charming has seen that her coach is really a pumpkin.

It tugs at me a little. This isn't a popularity contest. I mean what are we, twelve?

Fucking women.

But while I may be irritated, Jasper looks downright angry, and he is looking at ME. As if I have the power to stop any of this. I'm not encouraging Lauren, and I've seen Bella in action. I know she's got this covered. I glare back at him. This isn't my doing. Bella is a big girl.

"Lauren, you really need to get a grip," Alice says.

"Whatever, Tinker Bell." She is slumped back against the arm of the couch now, her chin nearly pushed in to her ample chest.

Fuck, her cab can't come soon enough.

"I think I'm good to drive now," Bella says and rises to her feet in her easy way. She crosses to her boots and sits, sliding a delicate foot into first one, then the other. Her fingers make quick work of the laces.

Now Alice is glaring at me. I shrug. What the fuck did she want me to do? Be nice, don't be nice? Fuck.

I tried giving Lauren the brush off. It's not MY fault that the girl is a shallow bitch.

I get to my feet. "I'll walk you out."

I hear Lauren behind me. "I'll be here when you get back."

Then Alice. "Lauren, shut the fuck up. You are such a nasty drunk."

Bella, who is standing now, slipping into her coat, says, "Thanks for inviting me Alice, I had a great time. Jasper… see you Tuesday."

Jasper is on his feet and wrapping Bella up in a hug. "You don't have to go, Bells. Lauren is leaving soon, anyway."

"It's all right. I'm zonked. I have to go crash. I can't keep stalling the drive home."

She looks over at me and her tone is resigned. "You don't have to walk me out, Edward. I'm parked right outside."

"It's no big deal, Bella," I respond, grabbing my flannel. "I need some air anyway."

Air that doesn't smell like cereal.

I trail Bella down the concrete stairs and into the clammy night air.

I am stretching my legs wide to keep up with Bella as her long stride eats up pavement, her velvet coat tugged tight around her slim body.

She unlocks and opens the Isuzu, firing it up and turning the heat control to MAX. Then she is back in front of me, the car humming away behind her.

"Well…," she starts a little shakily, her voice jittery from the cold as she rocks on the soles of her boots.

"I'm sorry about that, up there. I tried." I let my 'but I'm just too irri-fucking-sistable' smile finish that statement.

She laughs. "Yeah, I saw. That girl is… forward. Very."

Actually, a lot of girls are like that around me.

"Last chance, Bella. You're the one I want tonight. I can still take you home."

"We already discussed this."

"All right then. I guess it's Lauren after all."

Something flashes across Bella's exquisitely fatigued face before vanishing under reclaimed poise.

"Why do you think I'm leaving now? Would hate to cock-block you."

I laugh. She doesn't. "You already did that, Bellatrix. Major cock-block."

In fact, despite there being only two of us who have a vote, my nuts want a recount.

Now she smiles. But it's a small one. "Well, then I guess… a man's gotta do… what a man's gotta do."

"Alis volat propriis, sadly."

Her eyebrows squeeze together as her head tilts to one side in puzzlement. "Are we talking about the same thing?"

"I sure hope so."

"What does that mean, anyway?"

"Look it up, Swan."

"Say it again?"

I say it slowly, for her benefit. "Alis… volat… propriis."

She flies by her own wings. It has any number of interpretations, but I mean it in the he-comes-by-his-own-hand sense. Or preferably, she comes by her own vibrator.

She repeats it after me, and I think she will likely misspell it when she plugs it into Google.

"Goodnight, Bella." And I press a chaste kiss against her temple. If I kiss her again now, there is no way it doesn't end up sloppy in the back of her SUV.

"Goodnight, Edward." She climbs into her vehicle and I head back towards Alice's loft.

I'm pretty sure Bella doesn't like the idea of me taking Lauren home. Really, I had said that hoping to get a rise out of her. Again. But she masked whatever she was actually thinking underneath a joke.

Or maybe she really doesn't care if I take Lauren home instead of her.

That thought bothers me. I want her to care.

I look back at Bella's car, and she hasn't pulled away yet. She is looking at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

She does care.

When I get back inside, Lauren is snoring in a corner of the couch.

"Guess she couldn't make it that long," I jest, more to myself than anyone. Alice is canoodling with Jasper. God, what an unbelievable step down for her. But I'm going to keep my thoughts to myself because today is Alice's birthday.

Her face doesn't leave Jaspers neck as her hand shoots up and she offers me the pipe again. I take it and plop back down on the sofa. Lauren snorts.

"Cow," Alice mumbles.

I slide off the couch to sit on the floor.

"Why is she here?" I quietly ask Alice.

"We went to high school together and unfortunately, she remains my very close and highly regarded hair dresser."

That might explain how she knows me then. Alice and her fucking mouth.

"It's too bad Lauren scared Bells off," Jasper says as he takes the pipe from me.

Is that what happened here, really? I don't know Bella well, but I've never seen her not standing her ground. At least, when she's with me. Maybe it's a different matter when women go up against women. Maybe she doesn't consider the territory of ME, hers to defend.

"She could have stayed. If she let Lauren scare her off, she needs to grow up a little."

Jasper levels his gaze at me. It feels like an anvil being dropped unceremoniously on my sternum, like I have something to feel guilty about.

"Look Cullen. I can't judge you for what you don't know about Bella, but you shouldn't assume anything. She's… Well, she's different, and she has a difficult time seeing herself clearly. Understand?"

"She doesn't seem like she has a hard time to me. And besides what is there to see? Not anything all that remarkable." My mouth is running again. Saying things I don't agree with.

Jasper shakes his head, almost in wonder. "It sounds like you don't see Bella clearly either. Or yourself."

"I see myself fine. Thanks. And I would see her a whole lot clearer if you would stop being so fucking cryptic and just tell me her deal. You act like she walks on water or something."

"Bella's _deal_ is not mine to share with you. Besides, if you can't see if for yourself, I'm certainly not going to help you."

"Look, I don't want to insult your friend, or you, but women are women. They generally all like shoes, look at themselves too much in the mirror, and always, ALWAYS, have some kind of babe in the woods story to tell me. It's boring. They want two things from me, and I keep them both in my pants."

"Edward…," Alice starts, but Jasper interrupts her.

"If that is how you view women, I think you should probably stay away from her."

"I will stay away from her when SHE asks me to, not you." There is a little voice inside my head asking me if I could now, if she asked. I don't know the answer to that question.

Jasper looks worried and Alice looks a little confused. I decide to drag it out of him, if my little sister is going to get hurt by this moron, it's better to front-load that shit.

"You have a thing for her, don't you?" I ask him.

"Excuse me?"

"For Bella."

"A thing? Yes, I have a _thing_ for Bella, it's called respect. I've known her for years and she deserves it. Bells doesn't fight the same battles that Lauren there fights."

"What's so different about her? She certainly has enough attitude. Protecting her pussy like it's the fucking fountain of youth," I say.

"Maybe she has a little self-respect, maybe she just isn't like the women you are accustomed to."

Something tells me that this assertion is off. In any case, it's baseless. "A woman can have self-respect and casual sex at the same time."

"Sure. Doesn't mean it works like that for every woman."

I roll my eyes.

"If that's what you want, you should hit up Sleeping Scary over there."

I look over at Lauren, who somehow manages to look like a complete bitch even while in the throes of sleep.

"Not interested."

"Maybe what makes Bella different from Lauren is why you want her. She is beautiful on the inside, as well as the outside."

"Ah, a rarity." I shake my head. "I don't mean to seem like a prick. No wait... I don't give a shit. Those women, the truly beautiful ones, are few. Especially those who are marginally attractive. Like Lauren. Like Bella. It's like the middle class, and how they spend money like they are wealthy. It's sexual currency. It makes the world turn." Did I ever, really, find Bella only marginally attractive? Maybe once.

"We tend to see in others the things we dislike about ourselves," Jasper accuses. "If you see all women as shallow sex-bots, maybe you should stop to ask yourself why that is."

"Thanks, Dr. Drew. I don't think so." I take a rip from the pipe and hand it off to Alice.

Jasper stands and looks down at me, like he's fucking God-almighty. Like he can smite me with his words. "You need to get your head out of your own ass, Cullen. Fuck." And then he walks off towards the toilet.

I look at Alice. She knows me. She knows.

Her eyes close slowly, resigned.

"I can't believe you look at women that way. I mean, Edward… you don't think I'm like that?"

"You're my sister, Alice, it's different."

"It's not different. What if jasper agreed with you? Would you want a chauvinist dick like you dating your sister?"

"Who you fuck is your own business, Alice. Besides, look at Rose. Should I get involved in that fucking… _MESS_? No."

"Are you calling Emmett, of all people, a chauvinist?"

"No. I'm saying that who my sisters get involved with isn't really my business. Even when it's fucked up." And fucked up that truly is.

"There's a difference between me and Rose, Edward. You and I grew up together. You and I don't hate each other. You ARE my brother."

"What do you want from me Alice?" I run my fingers through my hair and tug at it. "Yes, I'm your brother. We can speak hypothetically about what if you were dating a shit-head. But you aren't. You're dating a dopey wet-fucking-blanket that would probably still be sucking his mom's tit if he could. I stay the fuck out of it."

"Don't be an ass, Edward, and don't cross that line with me." She doesn't like me insulting Jasper.

"Like I said. I stay out of it."

"The hell you do."

"I just don't get what the fuck he is going on about Bella. She's his friend, I get that. Kind of." Not really.

"There's something hard about you, Edward. I don't know when you acquired it, or why… I have my suspicions but they are only that. Something closed off and… cruel even."

"Don't give me that – 'Let someone in' bullshit Alice. It's better for me this way. The way that I am."

"Edward… this isn't you. This angry shell… it's... I don't know. It's toxic."

"Sorry, darling sister. This is me."

"I don't believe it. The boy I knew is in there, somewhere."

I know who she is talking about – but that person is gone. Systematically destroyed. And I really wish she would forget he ever existed.

I shake my head.

"Give him up, Alice."

"I can't do that. I love him too much."

"It's a waste."

"Love is never a waste."

"On me it is."

Her eyes fill. "If you really believe that, Edward, you should see a therapist."

"Don't start that again, Alice. I'm not going to your fucking shrink."

"Maybe someone through the V.A. then?"

"Definitely not." I roll my eyes into my palm.

"What about that class I told you about?"

"Drop it," I say, with my hand still over my eyes. My tone is clear. This conversation is finished. I can't keep doing this.

"Fine Edward – don't. You like the status quo? This empty thing you call your life, you just fill it up with pain and more pain."

"I don't fill my life with pain. I fill it with oblivion."

"Nice try. It's pain, and not just yours. You're like a vampire, you suck the life out of people and leave the corpses behind."

"Nice analogy."

"Not really. You're a masochist, Edward." Her voice quiets, her eyes turn down towards her lap, "And a sadist."

"It's not that simple."

"It IS that simple. And if you keep on this psychotic trajectory, then one day you are going to realize just how fucking simple it is."

I hate it when Alice swears.

I stand. "Look, I've got to go. Thanks for the invite. It was swell. Just LOVE your boyfriend."

"You're welcome." Her tone is malicious as she looks up at me. "Glad you could come. Glad I extended _you_ the courtesy this year, instead of Emmett and Rose." Her shimmering eyes tell me that I asked to come and she obliged me. Go ahead and try to make me feel like a shit, Alice. I'm way a-fucking-head of you. "And, Edward, take a fucking cab."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. And in any case, I hid your key." She hands me my key ring, complete save the key to the Jag.

"Shit, Alice. Give me my car key."

"No. Take Lauren's cab. I'll bring the Jag over tomorrow."

I sigh. I just want to get the fuck out of here. "I need it by noon."

"No problem, brother."

A quick honk sounds from the street below and without another word, I am out the door, down the stairs, and crossing the sidewalk to melt into the dark backseat of the cab.

It smells like cloves and leather. It smells foreign and familiar at the same time. The vibration of road under tires, the quiet sounds of Middle Eastern pop, the THC and liquor running a chaotic fugue in my blood, and I feel very far away from the dark deserted streets of Seattle.

So far, that I can almost feel the nearly itching sensation of the sun scratching hot over my face. The non-existent tingle as the full spectrum of light stabs down, then bounces back up from the reflective white desert sand.

The blast of heat that hits your face when a bomb goes off.

Isabella's smile.

A completely different heat. An internal burn that feels more like the glow of scotch blooming into my blood, making me light headed and flushed, a hot ardent burn.

Different from lust. More.

I've lusted often enough. Felt need, felt urgency. But I've never felt such a near lack of self-control. So like a savage, so brutally necessary to take ownership of her.

Is it her reticence that stokes me? The strange shield she brings up to hold me back? Is this hunger simply the need to bring her wall down, to invade, to be a warrior? Basic Caveman 101?

To conquer, to pillage?

To write my name on her brain, like she's done to me.

Bella.

It's always pulsing there. Like a tiny but bright star glimmering in the corner of my night vision. The kind I see even when my eyes are closed, because it's etched onto the inside of my eyelid.

The car slows and I wrestle my wallet out of my back pocket. I hand the cabbie a fifty without looking at the meter. "Keep it."

It's just money.

Each step I take towards the entrance of my building feels like wound energy spiraling through the muscles of my legs. The muted colors of the still lobby flex and stretch as I stride quickly towards an empty elevator, standing open, waiting for me. My knees give a little as the box lifts away from the ground.

I don't even turn on the lights in my condo. I just strip down to boxers and sprawl myself out across the massive bed, letting myself dissolve into it.

The air is warm. The bedspread is cool. Cool hands, hot mouth. And there she is a-fucking-gain. I wonder what her bed looks like. Is she in it? Is she thinking of me?

Did she get home still enflamed and ready, like I did? Could she, even now, be using her own fingers to quell the ache I pray continues to nag at her?

God, I hope so.

I pat the surface of the night table and lay my hand on the stereo remote. I hit the power key and a subtle aqua glow gives shadows to the shapes around me. I scroll through my catalog to "C" then tik-tik-tik-tik as the curser moves down to The Cure.

Then Albums. Disintegration.

Then songs. Lullaby.

Its eerie erotic melody fills the room, as my mind goes places that make no sense. No sense at all.

When I open my eyes again the green underwater glow has been obliterated by bright morning sunshine. My mouth is sticky and tastes of sludgy molasses.

I roll over and onto my feet, grasping my jeans up off the floor, fishing my phone out the pocket.

A text from Alice.

**Your car is in the garage. ~A.**

Good. Cause I've got shit to do. I head for the shower, seeking clarity and much needed release.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Bella's lower middle class neighborhood is fucking flooded with costumed kids and parents with flashlights and Starbucks cups. A soft, golden glow shines from her front window and three flickering jack-o-lanterns illuminate the short staircase to her porch.

I look at the 'wand' on my passenger seat. I found it earlier when I slid into the Jag, bearing a note, 'From the desk of Alice Cullen,' reading 'This is Bella's, you should return it to her before you leave.'

For the love of Christ.

As if Alice couldn't just hand her the fucking thing tomorrow at the office.

But still, here I am. I took the excuse she offered me. Why she did, considering, I don't know. But she did.

I glide the Jag into Bella's driveway and kill the engine. I get out and scale her steps in two light bounds.

I knock and the door opens all the way. Blocking the light is Bella's lithe form. She's wearing long yoga pants and a light sweater over a tank top. Her feet are bare. Her toes are adorable.

Her smile is not one I have ever seen.

"Trick or treat," I say.

And her smile must not have been for me, because just like that, it's gone. She hastily shifts a big bowl of candy to one hip as she pulls her dark hair forward over her chest. To cover the tattoos I see peeking out?

Or maybe it's just vanity.

"Don't you look scary," she teases flatly. "And what are you supposed to be, little boy?"

There is nothing 'little' about me. I grin. "How about Mayhem?"

"Yes. You are definitely Mayhem. Or at least, your hair is, anyway." She regards me. "What are you doing here?"

"You left your wand at Alice's." I hold it out to her and she takes it with a small laugh.

"You should have called. I would have let you know not to bother. I mean, it's just a stick. I found it on a walk the other day."

"Well, Alice, I think – was trying to give me an excuse to come see you. Can I come in? I can't stay long." I qualify.

She looks unsure.

"Best behavior. I promise." Scouts honor.

She hesitates only a moment more before stepping back and allowing me to cross her threshold.

Her living room is 100% IKEA, with several framed posters obscuring fresh green walls that look nice contrasted against cherry flooring. A reddish-brown sled dog is curled into a furry ball at one corner of the couch, its tail whapping against the smooth leather. He uncoils and stretches himself out onto the floor, then pads over and sits next to her feet, looking up at me with two different colored eyes.

I stoop a little and let him sniff me. He licks my knuckles and wags. Not much of a protector, not for a girl who lives alone. "Your dog is too friendly."

"Jake is scary when he needs to be. I guess he likes you." She sounds surprised.

"I suppose he looks fierce enough. What kind of dog is he, Husky?"

"Yes, Red Siberian."

"Good looking dog."

"Thanks." She laughs.

"What's funny?"

Her graceful hand waves in the air. "I just find it amusing… when people tell me how beautiful a dog Jake is, and I thank them like I'm responsible for it. I'm not his mom. You know what I mean?"

"Yeah, you guys look nothing alike."

Again, she laughs. An easy, throaty laugh, that makes my spine warm a little.

A huge textbook lays open on the coffee table beside a cup of something steamy. An iHome is softly playing. Roxy Music, it sounds like.

"Studying?"

"Trying to. The doorbell goes off every couple of minutes so… not really, actually."

She sets her bowl down on a narrow table by the entryway and stands looking up at me. The tension radiating off of her is very kinetic, like she could easily break into a run.

"Uh, would you… like a drink or something?"

"What do you have, there?" I gesture toward the cup.

"Jasmine tea. You want a cup?"

"Eh, no thanks."

"I can make you a cup of coffee if you'd rather?"

"That sounds much better. Thank you."

"Okay. You have to watch the door for me, though."

As soon as Bella leaves for the other room, Jake is up and following her sedately. He slouches down to his belly just outside the kitchen, watching her every move with big, hopeful eyes.

I know how he feels.

She opens a cabinet and pulls out a bag of coffee and a Melita. A kettle on the stove still has steam rising from its lip and she starts slowly pouring hot water over a small scoop of grounds.

_DING-DONG_

"You saw where I put the candy?" she calls over her shoulder. Like we do this every fucking day. And for a moment I consider something I never have before.

What would it be like to really be loved by this woman? Trusted.

A small heat starts to surge in my chest and I douse it.

What, Edward? You want to play fucking house with Isabella Swan?

Fuck that.

Jasper said a lot of shit last night, but when you add it all up it comes down to one really obvious conclusion.

If she is so fucking great and so different, then why is she alone? Why didn't Jasper himself stake a claim long ago? Because men and women as friends, yeah, it always leads to sex.

She is alone because some guy is sick of whatever her particularly brand of female bullshit is.

I'm going to fuck her and forget her. Get on with my fucking life.

I open the door to a miniature Miss Piggy and a bite size ninja.

"Twick or Tweat!"

They survey me, and I them, before holding out the bowl for their opportunistic fingers.

"Where's Bella?" Miss Piggy asks me. "I want hew to see my costume."

I hear her over my shoulder. "Is that you, Katie?"

She crouches easily in front of the small girl and pulls at one of her ringlets. I can almost hear the sproing as it coils back up. "You look muppetastic!"

Katie giggles, her cheeks rosy from the nippy night air. "I wanted Gawwett to be Kewmit, but he said no."

The ninja standing next to Miss Piggy smiles and shows Bella his throwing stars. "Very cool." Then she looks into their bag. "Wow, you guys have quite a haul there."

"Mistoow Jenkins is giving out money!" Katie squeals. "I got a dollaw."

"Me too," the ninja says.

"Hmmm, maybe I will have to go trick or treat at Mr. Jenkins myself."

The kids turn to scamper away and Bella stands and waves down to some barely visible shapes at the street.

A deep voice calls up, "Next Friday?"

"Sure. Just give me a call."

After she shuts the door I ask, "You know those kids?"

"Yeah, those are my neighbor's kids. I babysit them sometimes."

She makes a brief visit to the kitchen and then returns, placing a mug filled with coffee into my hands.

"So, you leave tomorrow?" She gestures to the couch and we both sit. She sits as she did last night, one leg bent underneath her, the other tucked into her chest.

"Yeah, I fly out early."

"You are going to your vacation home in Costa Rica?"

I raise an eyebrow at her.

"I uh, saw it on Twitter. I looked you up when you filed that claim."

Yup, fucking nosy, like all women.

Of course, you're fucking nosy too, following her around, a small voice tells me. Kind of pathetic.

I squash that voice, too.

"Ah. Yes. I mostly stay there. I travel around a little bit."

_DING-DONG_

Bella is on her feet and at the door, popping bags of candy into outstretched plastic pumpkins and bags. I flip her book closed, taking care to save her spot. Quantitative Analysis for Business.

That looks fun.

Bella is just about to retake her seat when the doorbell rings again. She gives me an apologetic smile and goes back to the door.

More candy is dispensed.

I watch her look into the bowl; she reaches in and pulls out a bag of skittles. Then she puts it back.

Just fucking eat the candy, shit. Worried about calories, more typical woman garbage.

She comes back empty handed and sits down. "Usually the flood of trick-or-treaters tapers off around now." Her dark hair is still pulled forward, tangling against a blue argyle pattern in her sweater. She looks almost reluctant as she asks, "So, how did the party end?"

"I don't know. I left right after you did."

She nods. I can tell she wants to ask me. Good, I want her to want to know.

"Alone," I say.

She smiles sardonically and rolls her eyes. "Thanks."

"No problem."

The room is quiet a moment. Bryan Ferry's sweet voice is quietly floating between us.

_The storm is breaking, or so it seems._

_We're too young to reason, too grown up to dream._

"Roxy Music," I quip, like a boss.

"Yes."

Fuck, this is starting to get awkward. But then she starts.

"I've loved this song since I was little. I always thought I could hear the smile in his voice as he sang it. Do you remember the video?"

I rack my brain, but come up blank. "No… I don't think I ever saw it."

"It's really sweet. Brian Ferry passes up all these women who are waiting for him, to get to his daughter."

I fight an eye roll. Like I give a fuck.

"This was the last concert I went to in San Francisco. It was at The Warfield, nine years ago." She points to a framed poster and I realize that all the posters in this room are for concerts.

Bill Graham presents Buffalo Springfield and Steve Miller Band.

Days on the Green posters and flyers from the late seventies and early eighties. Heart, Led Zeppelin, The Police. I get up and look at the dates.

"Most of these are from before you were born." I say, a moment later.

She nods. "My mom worked for Bill Graham Presents. Most of these were hers."

__DING-DONG__

"I got it," I say, before she can stand.

I dispense candy to some petite princesses and replace the bowl on its table. I look at the poster above it depicting an ugly moon with a space probe, or something, in one eye.

Bill Graham presents Primus, Tool, Everclear.

"I was at that one. I was ten," she states, watching me.

I look at the one next to it.

It's a ticket and blue flyer for Morphine and Soul Coughing at the Greek Theatre at UC Berkeley. It's matted in gray, big black frame.

"Were you at this one, too?" I ask. The ticket stub says 1999.

She is standing next to me now, her voice melancholy. "No. It was cancelled. Mark Sandman died earlier that month. I couldn't believe it. My mom cried. I'll never forget that day."

I look around the room. "You and your mom went to a lot of shows."

Her smile is faint and very nostalgic. "Tons. Some families eat out, mine rocked out."

"Did your mom ever remarry?"

"Oh, no. My mom was never married. Not even to my dad. That just wasn't her way."

"Sounds like an interesting lady."

I turn to Bella and she looks up at me. Her face is open and guileless. "Yeah. She really was."

"You didn't want to talk about her last time it came up," I say carefully.

Her brow furrows a little bit. "I don't like to talk about how my mom died. But I can talk to you for days about how she lived."

That makes sense.

"How did she live?"

"Fearlessly. Impetuously. Irresponsibly." She chuckles before going on. Her voice is quiet again. "Sometimes it bothers me that I will never know her as an adult. To me, as a child, she was a goddess. I am stuck always with that perception of her."

"That's not necessarily a bad thing. Can I see a picture of her?"

"Sure." She walks away, and I'm not sure if I'm supposed to follow. I see a light flick on and I head in that direction. Bella is standing in a small hallway that has almost as many frames as the living room.

I lean against a door frame as she takes one down and hands it to me. A stunning woman with light reddish brown hair, not that different in color from my own, looks back at me. She has a cigarette dangling from two thin fingers, and a very Mona Lisa expression on her face. Her skin is sun darkened and freckled, her eyes a stormy blue.

Bella must get her dark hair and eyes from her dad, but I can clearly see her fine nose and stubborn chin in this picture of her carefree mother.

I wonder what it's like to have a mother who wanted you. Who actually did things with you, for you. Even if Bella did lose her young, she was there. It was obvious that she loved her daughter.

"Her name was Renee. No one called her that though. She was either Red or Queenie. Phil called her Queenie." Bella looks away from the picture in my hands. "Phil was her long term lover, my step dad, for all intents and purposes."

She points to a picture still hanging on the wall. A very '80s looking guy with a mullet looks back at me. "He took this picture of my mom. Played keyboards for a local band, Crazy Mango. They were the next big thing, until the guitarist had a stroke." She points to yet another photo. "Henry, Phil's brother."

But I don't see him. Because I just noticed that from where I stand I can see directly into her bedroom.

_DING-DONG_

Off she goes. And like some kind of black hole gravity, I am sucked towards the open door of her bedroom.

Am I a fucking perv because I want to see a bra hanging off something or a sex toy on her nightstand?

She didn't make her bed this morning. It's a rumpled pile of blankets and clean white sheets. Her headboard is copper fleur de lis against black backing. The Bellatrix outfit from last night is slung over a high back purple velvet chair, the boots shoved haphazardly underneath. There are books all over the place, stacked on the floor and under the bed. I see an open door in one corner that must lead to her bathroom and I am just wondering if I have time to go peek inside, see what shampoo she uses, when the bedroom door closes right in my face. I jump slightly.

This girl is stealthy on bare feet.

"Can I help you find something?" Her voice is overly sweet, all sugar and spice, like there is no way in hell she is going to help me find anything that might lie on the other side of that door.

I look at her, biting the inside of one cheek, trying not to smile. I notice I do this a lot around her. I notice her attention moves to my mouth when I do it.

"Bathroom?"

"Of course," she replies easily. She puts a hand on each of my biceps and rotates me about 25 degrees to my right so that I'm facing the open bathroom door. It's pretty much unmistakable if I had actually been looking for it.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

"I don't really need it," I say.

She leans against her bedroom door and gives me a conspiratorial smile. "I didn't think you did."

She definitely wants me to kiss her again.

And I think I will. I put a hand against the wall on either side of her and duck my head.

But she's gone. Escaped under one arm and darting quickly down her hallway.

"You're fast." I laugh.

"I could say the same thing about you." Her eyes sparkle with genuine amusement.

_DING-DONG_

"Just put the bowl on the porch, for Christ's sake," I say, slightly exasperated.

She looks at me like I grew a second nose.

"What?" I ask.

"You obviously don't remember being a trick-or-treater. If I did that, the only kids who would get candy would be the next ones to visit my house. Everyone after that would get an empty bowl."

I am about to suggest something like who cares… but I can see that she does. So, I keep my mouth shut as she pulls her front door open.

For some reason, again, I get this weird feeling creeping up my spine. Like I could see us making dinner together in her small black and white kitchen, or waking up in those clean white sheets with her curled into me.

It's a good fucking thing I'm going to Costa Rica. I have to get out of here for awhile. Between my conversation with Alice and Jasper last night, and the draw I feel to this girl, I sort of feel like the walls are closing in on me.

"What's wrong, Edward?"

I shake my head slightly. "I'm sorry, Bella. What?" She is standing a couple of feet from me, regarding me carefully.

"You just look, I don't know, like you were very far away for a minute there. Already on the beach, maybe?"

Her tone is so soft, almost… caring. And I like it as much as I like her temper. Another shiver in my spine, another glimpse over the wall.

Fuck her and forget her.

"Maybe," I say quietly.

"Swimming in the ocean?" She asks.

"Definitely."

I've never taken a woman with me to Central America, but I can see myself chasing Bella down the beach, her long dark hair flying behind her. Her laugh.

She is in a white two-piece, all her color showing, her legs are long, her un-inked skin taking on a golden color from days spent in outdoor markets and lazing by the surf.

She would come home for Christmas sun-ripened and stand out against the dreary Seattle landscape all the more. Her pace would be slower, the necessity to hurry gone. Her posture would be luxuriant from days and days of love making.

Fuck her and forget her.

Alice said a lot of shit last night, but what it all really comes down to is that I am not capable of having a healthy normal relationship. I understand that… and I don't try.

"Do you really go down there to avoid Thanksgiving?"

"Did Alice tell you that?"

"Yeah. Sorry. Am I not supposed to know?"

"No. It's OK. Although I will say that your friend Jasper guards your secrets better than my sister does mine."

She pales slightly.

And I wonder exactly what secrets Jasper guards on her behalf.

I go on. "It's not Thanksgiving necessarily, as much as everything. It's a good time for me to get away. Missing the holiday is just a bonus."

"That's kind of sad, Edward."

"It's not, not really. My family… is the epitome of dysfunctional. They don't miss my company over turkey and gravy, and I don't waste one thought on them while I'm napping in a hammock."

"Napping in a hammock sounds pretty nice. What else do you do down there?"

"It is pretty nice. Guanacaste is quiet. Lots of little cowboy towns, lots of wildlife."

"You don't go down there to party then?"

I laugh. "No. I go down there for peace, not piece of ass."

She smiles.

"Alis volat propriis?"

Her articulation is exactly perfect.

"Yes. Except, the way you mean it, is different than the way I meant it." I give her a very pointed look.

Her eyes burn suddenly. "No, it isn't."

Fuck me.

I grab her wrist and pull her into me. She comes easily, not into my kiss, but against my chest, turning her face and pressing her ear against my heart.

For a moment I don't know what to do. Then I wrap my arms around her. She smells so good. I feel her chest expand against my abdomen as she sighs contentedly.

What the fuck.

The doorbell rings, yet again. She doesn't pull away. The top of her head disappears as she tilts her face up to mine. "You smell… incredible."

I study her dark eyes. "The door, Bella."

She rises up slightly, intending to touch her lips to mine. "They can wait," she says, her voice husky. My response is immediate.

Have. Take. Savor.

But apparently they can't wait, because the front door swings in and a smallish girl with rainbow bangs peeks in.

"Trick or treat?"

And just like that, Bella is four feet away from me, looking a little sheepish.

"Sam?"

"And Leah." A voice comes in from behind the odd girl in sagging men's Dickies, who is blocking the open doorway, her mouth slightly open.

Ah. It's the dyke.

"I think that's my cue to leave, Bella."

"Okay." She really looks like she doesn't want me to go. I like that.

Both of the girls are inside now and I follow Bella over to where they stand, looking a little bewildered. You would think that Bella never had a man in her fucking house before.

"Edward, this is my best friend Leah, and her partner Samantha. Guys, this is Edward." The look on Bella's face is unmistakable. She is imploring them not to repeat anything that might have previously been exchanged between them, in regards to me.

"Ladies," I say. Sam, the shorter girl, is trying not to smile too big. Leah looks very concerned.

She looks hard at me. "Edward."

Fuck. More of Bella's fucking posse to deal with. I'm done.

I look at Bella. "See you in a month."

"Definitely."

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

_God. She is so fucking hot._

_My heart beats one final time and then stops. I can feel it, already hardening, already turning to stone. _

_And, yet, still, she gyrates atop me. Using my chest as leverage, grinding down against my cock. Pushing against me, breaking my ribs, causing them to splinter backwards into my lungs._

_But it doesn't matter because I'm not breathing._

_**This is over. I'm dead. Get off me**. I want to tell her, but my mouth no longer works. Nothing works except my eyes. My arms are leaden, magnetized to the floor, the back of my head scraping the carpet as the force of her movement pushes me to and fro. _

_I watch her mouth form words, as the fine lean muscle of her tattooed arms strains with each pulse against my chest._

_Wait._

_She's not fucking me._

_She's trying to resuscitate me._

_1,2,3,4… Breathe. Her hair forms a dark curtain around my face as she exhales forcefully into my mouth. _

_And then she is back up and thumping my heart with determined fists. _

_She's fucking crying._

_1,2,3… She must be channeling every ounce of strength she has, right into this useless organ inside me. _

_For some reason a long forgotten memory surfaces. A medic telling me, a decade ago, that he will break a person's ribs trying to restart their heart._

_But it doesn't feel like breaking anymore. Despite the obvious force she is exerting, it feels like Bella has reached inside my chest and is gently churning my heart with her slim fingers._

_Still she pushes. Still she counts._

_1,2,3,4…_

_I wonder dimly if it's worth it. _

_And breathe. _

_But Bella's lips don't come flush with mine. I feel them instead against my ear, whispering. And suddenly my hearing has returned, her voice is very loud in my mind. "Don't think you are so broken that I can't break you more. To fix you, Edward."_

_Tha-thunk._

The beating of my own heart wakes me up.

Fuck_._

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

This chapter, for some reason, was a bitch to write. I hope it isn't a bitch to read. :D

Love all yall. Come yell at me on Twitter: (at)ajapersuasia

And, as usual - Dragonfly336: OOOEY GOOOEY LOVEY-LOVE. Especially for this one. Thanks for holding my hand.

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><p>"From this time, unchained.<p>

We're all lookin' at a different picture through this new frame of mind.  
>A thousand flowers could bloom.<br>Move over and give us some room.

Give me a reason to love you.

**Give me a reason to be a woman.**"

~Glory Box, Portishead

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>Fold, tear, staple, stack.<p>

Fold, tear, staple, stack.

I'm just finishing up A/P, trying not to think about Edward Cullen and failing miserably, when I see Jasper in my doorway.

I smile. "Hi."

"Hey Bella. Wanna get lunch?"

I have a sandwich in the fridge, but it can wait until tomorrow. In fact, I'd rather it did. I can tell Jasper wants to chat.

"Sure. Now?"

"Works for me, if it works for you."

"Cool." I lock up my computer and grab my bag. "What were you thinking?"

"How about Mod Pizza?"

"Okay."

It's cold and cloudy outside, but bright. I pop my oversized sunglasses on as Jasper beeps open his Subee. Jasper drives easily, confidently, with the same quiet grace he gives to everything he does. I look at his profile, wondering what's up. Something is.

He catches me watching him and turns to me briefly before returning his gaze to the road.

"You missed quite the conversation after you left Alice's."

"That doesn't sound good."

He shrugs a little as he pulls the car into a vacant space. "It wasn't good Bells, but I think, maybe, good things came out of it."

That's cryptic and I give him a look that says so. We head in and order a large pizza, half meat, half veggie with extra sauce, and then grab a corner table.

"So, what's up?"

Jasper takes off his coat and throws it over the back of his chair before sitting.

"After you left the party, after everyone left, Alice and I talked. For a long time. About lots of things. Including you. Including her brother."

"You and me, me and you, both of us togetherrrr," I sing. Jasper gives me a questioning look.

I wave my hand. "It's from _Monsters Inc_., sorry. Katie loves that movie."

Jasper gives me his '_can we be serious adults now'_ face. I primly fold my hands and place them in my lap.

"As I was saying, Alice and Edward are very different, but they actually have one hilarious thing in common."

"Hilarious, huh?" This should be good.

Jasper has a wolfish smile when he says, "They both, absolutely, don't understand our friendship."

I think my face reflects the surprise I feel. "What do you mean?"

"Well, hmmm… Ok, it's like our pizza, right? We share, but I get all meat, you get all veggie."

"As usual."

"Right. Do you ever want a piece of my side?"

I make a face. "Not really."

"Exactly, and you couldn't pay me to eat from your side of the pizza. No offense, Bells."

"None taken. Some people just don't share my dangerous hardcore veggie loving lifestyle. I get that."

"Riiiiiight. Well anyway, they… don't understand why we don't eat each other's pizza. Follow me?"

I am trying so hard to keep my serious, adult face now. "I guess. You should elaborate though, something tells me this analogy only gets better."

"It's like this, Bells. I can't imagine Alice having a 'guy-friend' who didn't have an ulterior motive. Because she is so perfect to me, it's hard for me to comprehend any guy NOT being attracted to her."

I tilt my head to the side. "So, you're saying that…"

He nods peremptorily. "Right. I'm saying that Alice, much to my surprise, can't understand why you aren't after me. Why you don't eat from my side of the pizza."

"It's not a problem for her, our friendship?" I don't really want to worry over this. Jasper is one of a handful of people that I love unconditionally, that I don't want to lose. It's never occurred to me that a love interest of Jasper's might not like his being friends with me.

Mainly, I've never had to consider it before. Jasper tends to be kind of a loner. Like me. I don't think he has a problem hooking up when he wants to, despite the room full of action figures in his apartment, but it's never been something serious before. This thing with Alice… it's serious.

"Not really. I explained and she gets it. She likes you. A lot, actually. And she trusts you. But what's surprising is that we both agreed that Edward feels the same way about you. He can't figure out why I'm not into you."

"So, that's a compliment to me, right?"

"For sure. I mean, look at it from their perspective, Bells. We're both pretty hot."

Serious adult face is totally gone now. If there is something Jasper and I have in common it's that we both feel like we are pretty ordinary. Slightly dorky even.

"That's true, damn hot, just like pizza. The analogy continues."

He laughs. "Anyway, so I explained to Alice that that just isn't what's between us. She understands. She is very intuitive. And, Bella, that's REALLY what I wanted to talk to you about."

I raise a brow. Jaspers face has lost all humor. It's quiet and solemn. He goes on. "Do you remember, ages ago, when we first met?"

"Of course."

"I'm different now." Jasper nods gently. I nod with him.

"Very." When I met Jasper, he was new to Seattle, somber, didn't talk much, and never EVER smiled. He lived with his grandmother who was pretty old. And dying.

He moved here from one of the Carolinas. You would never know it to look at him, but he came from extreme poverty. Like we-have-no-running-water-but-the-TV-still-works kind of poverty. I don't know exactly what happened to his mother, but it wasn't good. His father is in prison. He NEVER fails to walk a mile in her shoes for charity, and he always gets my hand me downs, Leah and Sam's too, to give to the women's shelter.

He doesn't like to talk about it. I understand that. We understand each other.

The expression on his face is introspective, his eyes downcast, his delicate eyelashes forming huge crescent shaped shadows on his cheeks. When he looks back up at me, I can't help but notice how haunted his hazel eyes are sometimes.

"Because I got help, because I was capable of asking for it. Not all of us are."

"Are you talking… about me, Jasper?"

"No, Bella." He is quiet a moment as I wait for him to continue. "No. I'm talking about Edward."

Uh-oh.

"Okay."

"I'm not saying this to belittle anything you have gone through, but men… are very different from women. We are taught that we have to be strong, that we aren't allowed to fail. That we can't be sensitive. We can't break down. We can't admit that we need help."

"You can't stop and ask for directions…"

A light chuckle clears the melancholy from his eyes. "Exactly. Thank God for GPS, right? Anyway. You, I think, have been able to overcome a lot of shit, as have I, because we weren't afraid to reach out to others. You know? But honestly, it was hard for me to do it, and other people… well, some people, Edward in particular, just can't."

I nod as Jasper leans back into his chair in order to wriggle something slim and silver out of his front pocket. He dangles a dull metal chain over the table, letting it pool slowly in front of me, as he sets down a rough looking set of military dog tags.

"Dog tags?" I ask.

"They're Edwards."

Holy shit.

"Why do _you_ have them?"

"Alice gave them to me. To give to you." I can't help myself; I pick up the tags and look at them.

"USMC. He was a Marine?"

"I guess he enlisted after 9/11."

I feel a little bewildered right now. "I can't take these. I… have no reason to…"

"Alice wants you to have them. She says he won't even look at them. He won't touch them. Alice has all his stuff from his service."

"But… they have his social security number on them," I protest.

"I know. So, don't lose them. Okay?"

"Jazz… I don't understand. Why does Alice want _me_ to have them?"

He shrugs. "Alice is really… I don't know, like I said… intuitive. She sees something in you. She can't put her finger on it, but… I know what it is."

I look up into his sweet face. "What?"

"You're a survivor, Bells. I didn't know this, but apparently, so is he. She says he is masking a lot of pain. And maybe guilt. And maybe PTSD."

Jasper gives me a very meaningful look.

"She wanted to talk to you about it herself, but thought it might be better coming from me. Especially because she can't quite put her finger on why she feels like you should have them. She thinks you can help him."

"Help him, Jasper…? I can't help him." I can't even help myself. I fight to stand my ground when I have to, but my instinct is always to run and hide.

"Maybe you can't. Maybe you shouldn't. I don't know. But I do know this. You guys have started something. Aside from Mike, I've never seen you start something with anyone. And I've known you a long time. Have you told him yet?"

I shake my head slowly as I wrap my hand around the tags. Somehow looking at his name etched there in the metal makes me very uncomfortable.

CULLEN  
>EDWARD A.<p>

"I know this sounds awful Bells, but don't. Not yet. I haven't said anything, and I won't, even though Alice has asked me a lot of questions about you. For her brother's sake, I think. I don't like him, Bells. He really has an ugly view of women, including you. But, I trust Alice. And she implored me to give these to you, so that you know a little bit more about what he's made of. To encourage you to give him a chance."

"Well, I _am_ giving him a chance…" I let the sentence die away. I feel like giving him more than a chance. I feel like pulling his head to my breast, pun intended, and comforting him. I feel like wrapping him in a blanket of love and taking back any suffering from him, all the damage. Everything. Give him a clean slate, a do-over.

Why do I feel this way? Is it inherent in me, because I'm a woman? Because I like him?

"I don't know. You can try to talk to Alice about it. I'm just passing along her message. And I'm adding one of my own. The guy is fucked up. Seriously."

"That doesn't inspire confidence, Jazz."

"Don't know what to tell you… he's pretty hateful."

I nod, more to myself, because he didn't seem at all hateful the last time I saw him. I remember the far off look in his eyes and I wonder where he actually was.

Our pizza is dropped at our table by a perky waitress who is way too young to call me 'Hon' but she does. I drag a big, steamy, cheesy slice onto my plate as Jasper does the same.

He dabs at his pizza with a napkin. "Alice says he wasn't always this way though… so maybe…"

"And Alice obviously loves him," I interrupt. "That's saying something."

Jasper nods. "And… I think… I love her." He looks up at me, his face is very serious. "I didn't think I would ever fall in love, Bella. It's the scariest place I've ever been."

"Scary?"

He exhales and runs his long, aristocratic fingers through his wavy hair.

"Scary. I mean," he smiles huge, "don't get me wrong, it's awesome. It feels like all the songs always said it would. I'm walking on mutha-fucking sunshine."

I laugh. "Yes, I can tell."

"But I feel very… vulnerable too. I don't know."

"I think you're supposed to feel vulnerable. Right?"

We're quiet for a few minutes, just munching. "Have you told her?"

He shakes his head. "I thought… maybe it was too soon."

I lift a shoulder in a half shrug as I scoop fallen toppings back onto my slice. "If you feel it, you should tell her."

"There's where the vulnerability comes in again. I mean, I don't know Bells. What if she doesn't say it back? Bleh. That would be really awkward."

"It's love Jasper, not the foxtrot. Take a chance."

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Junk, junk, junk, Macy's catalog, junk, bill, bill…

Postcard?

My heart jumps.

It's a nighttime scene of a gently erupting volcano, lava rolling down the side of a dark mountain.

I flip it over.

Edward's neat scrawl covers one side. The cinnamon gummy bear I had been chewing turns extra sticky in my mouth.

_I too love everything that flows. ~Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer_  
><em>As you do, underneath my skin. ~E.C.<em>

I just stare at the words, reading them again. And again.

Everything that flows. As you do.

As you do.

I look at the lava again. Everything that flows. And my mind is full of Edward…

My most erotic fantasies surge hotly to mind. Including my newest one, the one he gave to me. Alis volat propriis. The thought of him servicing his own needs gets me in a way I never expected. And if he were to do so with me in mind? The thought of it sends electricity dancing along my scalp, underneath my hair, and down my spine, where it blooms into an insistent scorch across my lower back.

_My peacock is blushing. _

Is that his intent with this card? To light my internal flame?

I'm certain it is. I fan my face with it a moment and then tuck it behind a magnet on my fridge.

Of course, Edward's fantasies of me, if he has them at all, aren't even me. No one day-dreams about a woman with one breast. Three maybe, a la _Total Recall_. But not one.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

November is crawling by. I used to love this month. For the peace of it, the change of season, the lack of catering, the calm before the December storm. Now it taunts me with its slow-ass ways. The days feel so long, despite the early darkness, and there's no baseball in the evenings to distract me from my preoccupations. After twilight, my house seems so still. I sit down to study and realize I've had to reread the same paragraph six or seven times because my mind wanders. Minutes tick by like hours, mental meanderings distract me during every waking moment, nonsensical dreams of Edward disturb my sleep. I wake hot and needy… and then I remain that way.

Every small, silver, sporty car catches my eye. It's never Edward. I chastise myself for being so easily distractible.

It's weird not to see his Jaguar hogging up the parking lot. It's weird to walk through the halls of my building, knowing I won't run into him. Sitting at my desk at work, knowing that Edward's office next door is empty and quiet, gives me a new sense of hollowness.

I put the dog tags Jasper gave to me in my hope chest that same day, but I've since pulled them out a few times to look at them. I lay on my bed with them dangling off my fingers over my face, and I try to imagine when they must have hung around his neck, under his shirt, against his skin. Collecting and storing the warmth from his chest, getting shiny and wet as he showered. The image of his powerful form unclothed and dripping, wearing nothing but these tags completely addles me. I don't know why. Almost like it's proof that he can be owned, that the pebble-like beads of the chain represent the yoke of his servitude.

And I have a hard time imagining such an untamable creature as Edward indentured to anything.

Something tells me that he had a hard time with it too.

An untamable creature, in everything. From the way he smells, to the current that radiated against my fingers when I curled them around his biceps. The way he kissed me, like a shipwrecked man, desperate for human contact. The way his eyes claimed me, devouring me like I was food. Like I was edible. Like he was starving.

It all lingers inside of me. His body, his face, his cavalier attitude about everything. Even his cruel condescension. Creating this glorious balloon of hope, a balloon whose string I feel foolish for hanging onto. A balloon I consider popping now to avoid a full-on blow-out later.

How can I ache for him, already? How is it that when I close my eyes and see his half smile and messy hair, I am comforted by it? It seems like a cruel joke sometimes. Other times it makes my heart skitter in quiet delight. There is a new glow inside of me; it shines out of my eyes and lilts my step when I walk.

Is it silly to hope? Sometimes I think it is.

Not just silly, but really, **really** stupid.

Epically.

There is no way he is going to want me after he finds out. I'm fairly confident of that. Why would he? When he has girls like Lauren ready to spread at the drop of a hat.

The thought gives my guts a sickening stir. Thinking back to the Halloween party, I understand why Lauren pulled ME onto the dance floor with her. Because she felt I made her look better, by comparison. It was plain that she didn't think I was in Edward's league, didn't buy that he wanted ME.

I want him to want me.

And for the bajillionth time in the last ten years, I find myself grappling with the _why me?_ Why did this happen to ME? I thought I worked through this question a long time ago. But with the advent of Edward Cullen, I find myself noticing EVERY nice set of tits around me and wondering why I drew the short stick in this life.

I am alive, I tell myself. I am healthy. There are more important things than whether or not Edward Cullen wants me.

But right now, for some reason, it doesn't feel that way.

I remember reading in a _National Geographic_ once about what infatuation does to the human brain. It makes you crazy, bona fide crazy.

That is how I feel. Bona fide crazy. My feelings are stupid, reckless, irrational… and I have no control over them. I know that if this goes where I think it goes, then I am going to suffer, and I am powerless to stop it.

It's already too late. I will go… I will suffer.

I have to take the chance. I _have_ to. He is like the oasis gleaming at the horizon of my desert parched vision. I know it's a mirage, but I will crawl towards it anyway.

Yeah. Bona fide crazy.

No. I won't crawl. I will stand, I will walk.

No crawling, Swan.

I learned that long ago. Head held high, too many other things have been compromised.

The thought makes me wonder if Edward too was compromised. Changed, somehow. According to Alice, he used to be different, and I find myself contemplating how much the service can damage a person. A lot, I think. Having to suspend your individuality, your fear, your sense of right and wrong. Do something because you were ordered to, and not because you believe it's right. I try, again, to imagine him as a Marine. His disobedient hair shaved down to the scalp, his gentle looking hands disassembling and reassembling his service weapon. I try to picture him running in formation. I can't, somehow.

I count the years. If he enlisted after 9/11, right after, and served his full four years, he would have still been a reserve when I first started working at Olympian Real Estate. I try to remember the first time I saw him, but it's just not possible. It's fuzzy. I don't think he was driving the Jag then, because that has only been parked in our lot for a couple of years, maybe.

Was his hair shorter? I don't really remember. Somehow it seems like it was always long and unruly. Rebellious.

My mind wanders to the handful of times I first saw Alice, with her perpetual allure, the skip in her step. Her endearing little smile suggesting endless inner musings. She loves him. I can tell. It's apparent in the little things, the sisterly things. It's the way she is with him, sort of like the way Leah is with me. There is a little something more there, something born of true endurance. Like you have seen that person at their worst, and their best, and you know all the reasons for not giving up on them.

Who knew that Jasper would fall for her? It dawns on me that maybe he has been admiring her from afar for longer than he let on, and working the Cullen wedding gave him his opportunity. At least something good came out of that fiasco. Something to reward his kind perseverance. Something to make that goofy smile blossom regularly.

I reflect on his warning that I shouldn't tell Edward about my missing breast yet. Jasper isn't the only person to tell me that. I remember when Shelley Cope showed me her tattoos. She confided in me that she was a lesbian, not because she felt especially attracted to women, but because she was too afraid of men anymore and needed companionship of some kind. She cried, not for herself, but for ME.

"Men really are from Mars," she had told me. "This isn't a badge of honor to them, it's a disfiguration. I don't know how you will do it Little Bee, but you have to stand on your own two feet alone. And I know this sounds awful, but you have to get a man to fall in love with you before he gets your clothes off."

I thought she was wrong. She wasn't.

Most of the women in my support group were married. Older. Established in love with husbands who were there for them. I really couldn't believe it when some of those women, women who had lost everything that defined them as female, their breasts, their uterus and ovaries, their hair, looked at ME with pity in their eyes. They had their men. The best kind of men, balding or bespectacled, men with tattoos to honor their women, gregarious men with graying temples, they came and spoke to the group about their warrior-wives, trailing children and wrapping the whole family in the masculine blanket of security.

Over the next couple of years, I found myself envying other women, sometimes just because they had husbands. I saw happy couples everywhere. I still do. In the grocery store, planning meals together; or at the gas station, him pumping her gas while she stays warm and cozy inside the car. They come in to the office to sign paperwork for offers and acceptances. Buying houses together, building lives together. They argue. It throws into sharp relief how alone I am. It exaggerates my desire for even the negligible aspects of coupling. Having someone to kill the spider that starts a web over the bed, or someone to fix the wobbly handrail on the front porch, someone to hold you when you wake after a night tremor.

Someone to make you feel less alone.

Used to be I was jealous. I was more than jealous, I was angry. I was full of self pity.

Then I realized what a stupid ass I was being. I can kill my own fucking spiders. I can fix my own anything. And I decided not to keep saying no to would be suitors out of fear. I was going to take some chances. I wasn't going to hide.

Unfortunately, the person I said yes to was Mike.

Mike with his kind eyes and passive aggressive ways. I felt nothing when he kissed me. Okay, that's not entirely true. I felt a little revolted actually. One minute he was looking into my eyes, and the next minute his tongue was forcefully knocking against my gag reflex like it was some kind of sport. As if he could convince himself I was hot by fervency.

Competitive kissing. Mike had medals.

He liked to use his tongue on me in many ways, but it felt more like evasion on his part. Go straight for my pussy and avoid anything above the waist. Absolute foreplay fail. I never climaxed with him. And it didn't seem all that easy for him to either. Awkward and weird. The whole relationship was awkward and weird. It went on way too long.

Mike and Edward are so different. Worlds apart, really.

Edward looked so big in my small living room, sitting on my couch. The way he sits, with his legs spread, the way he stands when he tucks his fingers into his pockets, the way he moves, when he is walking towards me. His hands, and the unconscious way he touches things. The supposed confidence in every gesture.

The way he smiles, when it's genuine, so rare, so beautiful.

Everything about him, the perfect and imperfect, seems to affect me now. The mole on the back of his neck… how his hand rests over it in his most endearing moments. The way his shirt clings to his arms, big but not ripped. You can see how he used to be very lean, very cut, but he is a little softer now, still muscular, healthy and strong. His teeth, his incisors, bicuspids… maybe it's just his mouth in general.

What would it be like to be with a virile man like Edward Cullen? What would it be like to have him eat something I cooked or come home from work and be glad to see me? Just to sit in the crook of his arm and watch TV or fall asleep together.

What would it be like to stand next to him, at the movies or in the grocery store and have people know he was with me?

To have other women envy ME for a change.

God, am I really this shallow?

Maybe. Maybe I deserve everything I'm going to get when this doesn't work out. Stupid, stupid girl.

I stash the tags back in my hope chest and curl up on the couch with my laptop to try to do some studying. It's dark outside and quiet inside. I open the browser for my school and stare at it.

I google Edward Cullen instead.

I click on his Allstate page, just wanting to see his face.

And there it is... the hair. He looks so serious in this picture. Unhappy even.

I click on the link to Twitter, like I did a couple of months ago.

He tweeted today, and my jaw falls open.

_For the first time ever, the birds of Seattle are more beautiful than those of Costa Rica. I miss the swans, particularly._

I just stare at it. There is no way he is not talking about me.

Or maybe he isn't.

No. He must be. It's obvious.

Why do I feel like pumping my fist in the air?

Instead, I bang it against my face.

Get a grip, Swan.

Swans.

Holy fucking crow!

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I'm exhausted, sitting in the lodge at Mt. Baker, sipping my coffee and looking out the window at Leah and Sam. I love watching them. I love the way that they love each other. Sam just pressed a snowball into Leah's face and then took off, running awkwardly in her snow boots, with Leah bearing down on her. Leah with her long legs and dark braid flying in her wake. Sam doesn't stand a chance.

The four of us always spend Thanksgiving snowboarding. My dad usually has to work on the holiday, so Sue volunteers to go into the store, and we all have Thanksgiving on Friday. This is the first year that there are five of us on the slopes. The first time I am awkwardly uncoupled. The first time we have a skier amongst us. Alice.

I can't help but think back to Jasper's conversation about pizza and wonder why we fall in love with some people, but not others. I can think of nothing that would make my life better than to have fallen in love with Leah or Jasper. Because I already love them. They already love me. But the attraction, the chemistry, I guess that doesn't always occur between people. As I watch Leah rub snow against Sam's fuzzy scalp while she yips in surrender, and Jasper help Alice get her skis off, taking exquisite care with her, I feel like there absolutely is such a thing as soul mates. I'm looking at it now. It's beautiful. It gives me more hope. There is someone out there for me.

Somewhere. Probably not in Costa Rica though.

"Bella?" I turn and see Alice's flushed face as she sits down next to me at the Bistro table.

"Hey, Alice."

"I think I'm done. My feet are starting to hurt. That last run kicked my ass."

"Yeah. I think I'm done for the day too. You want some hot chocolate or something?"

"Jasper's getting me chili in a bread bowl." She nods towards where he stands in the food line and he gives her his big, happy grin. They make me smile.

"Bella – while we have a minute. Jasper said he talked to you… "

"He did. And my head's been spinning ever since."

"I guess I should have talked to you myself. But somehow, it seemed less like me blabbing Edward's private business if Jasper did it. You know?"

"Yeah. I guess. Not really, actually."

"I wish I could explain better. I wish I could help you to know Edward the way that I know him."

"Okay. I want to know him, is that a good place to start?"

Alice nods carefully. "My brother… is beautiful. Is that why you want to know him?"

God help me, I don't know the answer to that question.

"Bella, listen. Edward is beautiful on the INSIDE. If you can believe that."

"I think, maybe, I've seen glimpses of it. But mostly, no."

"I know. He's really… I don't know… he's really just an asshole. But he wasn't always. He was the sweetest, kindest boy. Gentle. He was my best friend. He never should have joined the service. He never should have enlisted. It destroyed him."

"Why did he?" I venture.

"I don't know. Maybe for the approval of our father, or because he thought he should. He dropped out of college and ended up in Afghanistan. When he came back… he came to work with Emmett. If you had told me, when we were teenagers that Edward would sell insurance one day, I would have laughed. But, he doesn't care anymore. About anything. He just fills his days with work and his nights with drink and deviation."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because my brother… he's self destructing."

"I don't see how this has anything to do with me. I… I can't help him."

"Maybe you can. You've gotten under his skin. Maybe he won't push you away like he does other people."

_Everything that flows, as you do, under my skin_.

But I shake my head. "I don't think so, Alice. He already pushes me away."

"Yeah, but you push back."

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I'm stuffed. Full of free range turkey, gravy, yams, and green beans. I feel like I want to open the top button of my jeans. I feel like I'm going to need a spoonful of ipecac if I'm ever going to taste any of that pie on the sideboard.

I probably shouldn't have had seconds. Ugh, and all the snacks all day. Someone is going to have to roll me to my car.

And maybe soon. Sam is leaned into Leah, whispering something in her ear, and I can tell exactly where her hand is under the table. Leah looks contentedly devious.

Seth has a similar expression, but it's directed towards his XBOX.

Sue is in the kitchen watching Charlie try to figure out how to open the bottle of wine she gave him with the wine key. She holds out her hand and he hands the whole gizmo over to her with frustrated resignation.

A meaningful look is exchanged between them. Sue nods.

What's this?

They come into the dining room. My dad looks nervous as he runs a hand over his mustache. He looks at me and smiles. I smile back.

Finally.

"Uh. Bella…" he turns to Leah and Sam. "Leah. Seth. And Sam. I have something I'd like to share with you."

I don't consider myself an overly emotional person. Maybe it's the neurotoxins in my food, but my eyes are welling up. He did it. He finally asked Sue to marry him.

Sue is standing just over his shoulder and she reaches forward just as he is reaching back for her hand.

"Sue and I have decided to get married. She-"

"Oh my god, MOM!" Leah is on her feet and wrapping her long generous arms around her mother. Sam smiles at me as a tear slides down my cheek.

"Bella, get over here." Leah implores me and I'm on my feet, not really seeing anything as I am gathered up in the arms of the people I love. I look up at my dad and his dark eyes, so like mine, shine back.

His face is a question, and I think mine has the answer. I nod.

I feel Seth ducking under one of my arms, into the group hug as Sam joins us on the other side, squeezing in between Charlie and Leah.

Leah has tears in her eyes when she looks at me. "You'll be my sister. Really, now." And her hand reaches over everyone for mine. Our fingers tangle. She mouths, "I love you."

I mouth it back.

"So… when?" Sam, practical pig, chimes in.

The hug breaks up but nobody goes back to their seat. We just stand there, in the archway between kitchen and dining room, as Sue answers.

"Well, we were thinking January or February would be good. That gives us time to get everything in order. Do something small. Something here."

"Let's have it at the shop," Sam suggests.

"We can have Jane cater," I offer.

My dad interjects. "Don't get carried away. Sue and I would like to keep this simple."

"Okay. Simple. No problem."

Later, as I foolishly cram pie into my face, overeating again, I'm already regretting it but I can't stop myself. As happy as I am for everyone, I feel sort of empty now. It's an emptiness I fill with pumpkin pie.

An emptiness I'm pretty sure I'll fill with pie for a long time.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

When the thin winter sunlight streaming in my window forces my eyes open the next morning, I decide it's a good day to visit Pike Place. Maybe hit Everyday Music and generally do no studying whatsoever. I need distraction. I am going after it.

Mainly, I need to be distracted from my impending date with Edward Cullen, which is looming in my near future. Friday. And then begins a month of work, Christmas parties and shopping and pressure, so I decide I deserve a break from all that in advance.

I shower, dress, and promise Jake a long walk later, then hit the road.

I park my Isuzu in the garage across the street from the plaza and hoist my satchel over one shoulder. My phone buzzes. I pull it out and check the display. It's a text from Jasper.

**Did I leave my goggles in your car? ~J**

I quickly swipe out my response while I wait for the light to change.

**I don't know. Let me check when I get home and let you know. Ya? ~B**

The phone buzzes again right as the light changes. I look at it as I start to walk.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I haven't been back in Seattle for two hours and there she fucking is.<p>

Thank God.

I forced myself to stay in Costa Rica as long as I fucking could. Why everyday was a worse torment, I don't know… but I do know that my daily routine involved consciously deciding not to get on a plane back to the States.

I watch her from where I sit in my Jag, not ten yards away. She's wearing dark opaque leggings under a really short skirt with a navy pea coat, collar flipped up against the chill. Her hair is down, wind whipped and wild, with her fair face all tangled up in it.

She's fucking with her phone and didn't see me pull to a stop right behind the crosswalk.

She's like a sight for sore fucking eyes. Like stepping into a warm shower after days of chill. Like the first flood of intoxication in the brain, the first scent of rain on the air. I want to drink her in. I want to smell her hair. I want to touch her skin. I want to taste her throat.

I pop my car into neutral as she starts across the street.

Those fucking legs are so long. They go on forever. They ascend into heaven. I want them bare and wrapped tightly around me. I want to punish her for her distance, by bringing her close, by pushing her to the edge.

She is just stepping in front of my bumper when I press the gas and rev my engine at her. The mechanical growling doesn't do justice to the urgency I feel.

Her eyes linger a moment on the silver feline hood ornament before traveling up to find me behind the wheel.

She comes to a complete stop and just stares at me. The wind is pressing a lock of hair into her eyes, and almost in slow motion, she lifts her hand up and tucks it back behind her ear.

My eyebrows involuntarily twitch in invitation as I let my engine sing gently at her. Her expression melts from wary surprise into a suggestive half-smile.

It's a smile that makes me think of pushing her against the front of my car and ripping open the crotch of her tights.

Caveman 101.

And she's gone. Stepping onto the opposite sidewalk and walking briskly towards Pike Place. My light turns green and I put the Jag in gear. My building is right around the corner and I'm anxious to ditch this car and pursue the form of the girl who has vexed me silently for twenty-five fucking days.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>My heart is racing but it feels so good. He's back. My blood is running hot through my body. Challenging my brain with nonsensical imagery, making it difficult for me to organize my purpose. I just move. I just go.<p>

I duck into the first café I see and unthinkingly order a sandwich, after staring at a menu that fails to make sense for minute after long minute. I pay and the lady hands me a tray of food.

I am so not hungry. Not for this. I head over the soda fountain for a glass of water. Thirsty, yes. Very much so.

I smell him before I see him. That delicious clean spicy scent, warm to my nose, but hot and faintly pornographic in memory.

I'm trying to shake a water glass loose from its stack one handed, not willing to set down my tray and use both hands, when I feel his heat against my back. His arm stretches into my field of vision as his hand wraps around the stack of cups, securing them so that I can lift mine off the top.

I look up into his face; his cool mint-marbled eyes stand out against his slightly tanned skin and have the look of someone who has been using them to scan vast landscapes and long distances. His hair, well, it looks like it usually does. Like he just had sex in a wind tunnel.

"Edward." My voice is far breathier than I expected.

"Bella."

Oh my god. What the fuck was that. No 'Isabella Swan' today. Just a short harsh utterance of my name that sounds, almost angry, but also like he hummed it right into my ear. What fucking planet am I on?

Suddenly, like on the dance floor, everything around me is gone. All there is, is Edward. And me.

"You're back early."

His stern expression gives way to bleak laughter. There is no amusement in it, like he is laughing at himself.

"Yeah, I've never had such a long vacation." He runs his hand through his glorious hair. "Funny, actually."

I don't want to assume anything. It's dangerous for me to assume ANYTHING.

"That sucks. I think." I try to adopt a casual tone. In my ears it sounds expectant.

"It did suck. So, I'm back now." His voice drops down to a level that reminds me of the quiet growl of a contented feline. "I'd like to greet you… properly, in a normal, human way."

Our conversation in the break room seems like so long ago, now. And it seems like it was with a different person.

The skin around my eyebrows is burning. It tingles at the corners of my eyes, forcing them closed. "So, how do you greet me in a normal, human way?"

"I grab one of your ass-cheeks and haul you against me so that I can stick my tongue in your mouth."

"That doesn't sound like a normal human greeting," I stammer out before willing my eyes to open again. "That sounds more… intimate… like the way lovers greet one another."

"Where do you think this is headed, Bella?"

I just look at him as he takes the tray from my hands and sets it casually on the counter. "So, may I?"

How can I say no?

"You may."

And suddenly, his big hand is full of my round ass. He squeezes it as he gently pulls me into him. Like we aren't in the middle of a busy café during Saturday lunch. Like there aren't people filling cups with soda right behind me. He presses me against him as he ducks his head into my neck. I hear him inhaling, and the exhale is a quiet masculine groan of contentment.

His mouth, when it finds mine, despite my having remembered it so many times, isn't at all like I recall. It's WAY better.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Somehow, I choke down my lunch with Edward sitting across from me looking like a sun-bronzed, sleepy-eyed cat. My whole body hums under his scrutiny. Everything progressive about my attitude humbles a bit when he takes my tray to the garbage can for me, when he holds the door to the café open for me, the way he pushes me gently out of the way of an oncoming cyclist, how he places his body between me and the traffic.

It's almost unconscious on his part, I think. His constant awareness of our surroundings is obvious to me now. Like the way he slid the tray from my chosen seat to a different one, so that he could sit with his back to the wall, eyes on both entrances. And I wonder how much my knowledge of his military service will influence how I see him and his actions now. Is that why Alice gave me those dang tags?

I feel the color spreading under my heavy jacket and take a drink of my water. I don't like all the secrets now. I know things about him that I shouldn't. He doesn't know things about me that he should.

He talks about Costa Rica as we walk into an organic produce market. Mindless chatter, but in it I hear the desire to share with me. It makes me glow inwardly.

I stop in front of some baskets of apples and oranges and he stops too, placing his palm against the small of my back as I start testing fruit by smelling it and sniffing gently. My mind wanders to how free he's being with his hands. Letting them own me. How much I like it. I'm not even seeing the fruit anymore.

His voice vibrates down his arm and into my spine. "I don't think you want any of these, Bella, they don't look so good."

"Why, what's wrong with them?"

"They're kind of small. Like they won't ever ripen." He plucks the apple from my hand and turns it around. "This one is all lopsided."

Fuck.

I know he is talking about the fruit. I absolutely know it. But what I hear is him talking about me.

I need to be cool here. But I don't know how. I take the apple back from him and hold it up.

"You know what's wrong with food today, Edward?"

"Oh boy," he says.

"The food industry has us convinced that if a product isn't perfectly symmetrical, bruise free and totally flawless, then it's not suitable for eating. You know. They put wax on our food, and they dye it, they treat it with carbon monoxide and ammonia… and all this other junk, just so that it looks prettier. But what they are actually doing is poisoning us. Removing all the nutritional value. It used to be that farmers rotated crops, re-enriching the soil by growing clover or leaving it fallow. But now these companies use fertilizers made from petroleum which is slowly killing us. Food doesn't taste the way it used to. I remember my grandmother telling me about what an apple _USED_ to taste like. But now you buy an apple at the grocery store and it tastes like cardboard. There's nothing there."

"And?" He looks totally bored with this conversation. I bristle under his indifference.

"I'm just saying… we've been conditioned to reject this fruit," I hold it up, "without even tasting it. I mean… there's nothing wrong with it. Sure, it's a little asymmetrical, but it's perfectly alright. I'm going to buy it."

He rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised he's still standing. "Alright. You do that."

I am an imperfect woman, dating, if you want to jump to that conclusion, a man who has been conditioned by porn, supermodels, probably Carlisle's skirt chasing behavior. I only have a vague notion of what Edward's sex life consists of, but I'm pretty sure he surrounds himself with the upper echelon of calendar quality women.

If he knew about me, he wouldn't be here. Maybe it's time for me to tell him. End this charade, move on, before this hole I'm digging gets any deeper.

I'm going to tell him. I just accidentally created the perfect segue. I can capitalize upon it, maybe it's not the best time - but is there ever a best time?

My hands are suddenly very clammy. And I'm nervous. Very nervous. My heart is lurching into my ears and I'm having a hard time hearing what Edward is saying to me.

He's taken the apple from my hand and is handing it to the clerk.

"You're passionate about food. Jasper said you were."

"I am. But maybe I wasn't just talking about food. Maybe I was talking about something else."

"Oh?" he asks distractedly as he hands a five over to the shopkeeper.

"Yeah. I was actually. We should talk." That wind tunnel Edward had sex in? It's all around me now, drowning out everything but my own shaky voice.

He turns to me with a bemused, knowing expression, and takes a bite out of my apple. "Yeah. You're right. It tastes fine to me."

I'm speechless. Watching him chew, his teeth which so fascinate me, masticating, his jaw working. It all seems slow and magnified in my heightened awareness of him. Some primitive part of my brain is lusting to be the apple crushed between his teeth. I want to be his sustenance. I want to be his food.

It's something I will never be. If I am lucky, I might get to be a momentary plaything.

This thought makes me angry. If I am lucky? God, my brain is so addled by this man.

We step outside and he chucks the apple into a dark corner.

"You aren't going to finish that?" I ask a little hotly.

"Nope."

"You just take one bite and throw the rest away?"

He gives me a pointed look. "That's what I do."

I raise a brow at him.

"I'm not an idiot, Bella. You're a woman and that apple is an analogy. 'We've been conditioned' and all that bullshit is just your way of telling me about your damaged self-worth. Boo fucking hoo. You're getting all bent out of shape, blaming me, without even knowing me." The fire in his green eyes fades a little. "And I'm telling you, you're right to do so."

The breath leaves my body. My next statement sounds as pathetic as I feel. "It's just, such a waste, and… well, you littered."

He drags his hand through his wayward hair. "Damn, Bella, are you always so fucking sanctimonious?"

I tilt my face up to his. I can feel the burn invading my cheeks and I hate it. I wish I could be cool and collected, and not this pink faced fluster fest. My lips curl in a little. "Are you always such a pompous ass?"

He gets really close to me. Other people are watching us now, as they part around us. I turn them into white noise. "I'm trying to be honest with you, here. I'm… NOT… the good guy."

"That comes as no surprise to me."

"And you're not my type."

"So I've been informed. Why are you here then?"

"I have no fucking clue."

"You really don't. Not one, Edward."

"You're not all that attractive. You're slight, you're small breasted, your eyes have these dark shadows beneath them. You look mal-fucking-nourished."

"You are an insensitive prick, you know that? And your fucking nose is crooked." I am right in his face now, up on tippy-toes.

"Nice language, Bella. Insensitive prick or not, I have access to women who don't give me such a fucking hard time, women who drip lasciviousness. While you... you give me push back on every fucking thing." The look on his face morphs from exasperation to surprise. "You radiate something. You burn me."

"No, I think you just burned me, actually. See you around." I turn away from him, but I feel his strong grip clamp down around my arm as he spins me back to face him.

"I'm sorry. Stay. My nose IS crooked. I broke it… a long time ago." He looks genuinely abashed. Like he can't believe the stuff that just came out of his mouth.

"I don't care." Malevolence squeaks past my rigid jaw.

We stand there looking at each other, for what feels like forever. His eyes are jumping between the two of mine, searching. Contemplating me.

"I… don't know what it is about you, you're like an infection, just under my skin, and antibiotics don't touch it. I need a topical cream. Or an injection… or something."

I find myself laughing unexpectedly. "I'm like a rash?"

He laughs. "Yes. A really annoying rash that I can't stop scratching at."

"Lovely."

His beautiful, genuine smile fades away. A muscle in his jaw clenches. "You ARE lovely, Bella. I don't know why I said those things."

"You do this nearly every time I see you."

"I know. I fuck things up. I'm warning you, that's all."

For some reason we're walking again. Maybe to get out of the flow of people. I notice women's heads turn to look at him as he walks past. I think, maybe it's ok if he fucks this up. It's not like I can keep him anyway. It's good for us both to have realistic expectations of this situation.

"Did you get the postcard I sent you?"

"I did." I'm wishing I had thrown it away instead of hanging it on my fridge. I really feel foolish right now.

He stops again, near a corner, out of the way this time and pulls me into him. He slides one hand into the hair at the base of my neck. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. While I was down there. All I wanted was to be back here in Seattle. The first thing I do when I get here? Insult you."

"It's not the FIRST thing you did. But you sure didn't waste any time." His thumb is rubbing my cheek gently, slightly. "Do you always run this hot and cold?"

"Around you, Bella, I only run hot."

My turn to roll my eyes. "You're laying it on thick now."

"You have no idea."

I feel my lip come involuntarily between my teeth. His eyes move to my mouth. Then his mouth follows suit. I want to stop him.

Wait.

No. I really don't.

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

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><p>AN: This chapter is a little self indulgent in its exploration of music. There is a LOT of it and some of it is not mainstream. It's all here if you are interested: ireenh. blogspot. com. I posted album covers and other visuals there as well, if you are so inclined.

If you only listen to one song, I would do Midnight in Harlem from Revelator. It's going to be in the next chapter too.

Also - I make up words. I wear a beret while I do it. You have been warned. It is not the fault of the lovely Dragonfly336… she is the muthafuckin' shit.

And, to a very wise lady who said: THIS is Scotch, and THAT is Bourbon – Here's lookin' at YOU, kid. :)

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><p>.<p>

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.

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><p>So brown eyes I hold you near, cause you're the only song I want to hear.<br>A melody softly soaring through my atmosphere

~Where Soul Meets Body, Death Cab for Cutie

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><p>**BPOV**<p>

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><p>The kiss is gentle and repentant. Almost sorrowful in its languor. My mind swims out of focus. Why is it Edward who makes me feel this way? Like I'm simultaneously the most wanted and the most disdained creature on the planet.<p>

When he pulls back, the wind chill hits my formerly engulfed mouth, and I notice just how cold it is out here. I can hear him breathing. The shakiness at the very end of his exhale matches the unsteadiness in my own lungs.

I open my eyes to find him looking at me, his hand still curled about my neck, the rough pad of his thumb tracing my over my cheekbone.

"I love the way your mouth looks after I kiss you. Like you've only ever been kissed by me."

Practically.

"If it's my blush you're looking for, saying things like that works just as well."

His half smile is an endearing mix of amusement and ego. "Yeah. But it's a different blush. Your angry blush makes your neck pink and your lip tremble slightly."

"How about this? I can email you a list of subjects I feel passionate about, and you can attack those things if you want to rile me, instead of me personally. Then, maybe, we can actually have a conversation, instead of an argument."

His half smile becomes full. Fully ego. It's the disingenuous smile of a predator. "How about if you just tell me over dinner?"

"I can't. I have a mile of leftovers at home and company coming over to help clear it out."

"Tomorrow then. I can't wait a week, Bella. I've already waited months."

"Whose fault is that? I'm not the one who spends all of November on the beach."

"Please."

"I can't. I'm sorry." Honestly, I probably could. I'm just not ready. I was thinking that our date would be the right time to tell him, and I still need the week to ready myself. Despite my earlier conviction that I could tell him today, I can't. And I can't tomorrow either. I need time to regroup.

He runs his fingers through his mess of hair. "Of course you can't."

We walk in silence for a few moments. Then he says, in a slightly dejected voice, "Are you leaving now?"

I shake my head. "No... I was going to Everyday Music. You want to go?"

"Sure. Can I drive you?" He holds his beautiful hand out for mine.

We walk towards his building. Once we get out of the protected area of the plaza, the wind picks up with gusto, blowing right through all my layers. Cutting straight to my bones.

Just like he does. A cold gale force wind. A mistral. A wild storm making me want to batten down the hatches and lock the winter out. I peek over at Edward walking next to me. I catch him peeking at me and one side of his mouth curves up.

The winter chill and the comforting cocoa, both. Because inside my shelter, I would wrap my hands around a hot mug, I would breathe in the steam, I would sip the soothing potion, letting it warm me from the inside. Like he does.

_Everything that flows, as you do. _

My hair is being swept off my shoulders and against his arm, flattening against the thick grey wool of his coat. A barometer of how all my molecules want to fit themselves around his.

As if sensing my thoughts, or maybe just because he thinks I'm cold, he lifts his arm and wraps it around my shoulders, tucking me into his warmth. Into his scent.

We don't try to talk. We just walk, matching each other's pace, towards 1521 Second. Sliding into his car is different this time, somehow. Familiar. He turns the engine over and it gives a healthy growl.

After checking his mirrors, he twists in his seat. One hand on the headrest behind me, the other manipulating the wheel as the car slides smoothly out of its space.

"Are you looking for anything in particular…?"

"Oh... music-wise?"

"Yeah."

"Not really. I like to see where my train of thought takes me."

He turns to me with a curious expression, so I explain.

"I start browsing. Then, I think of something and want to see if they have it. Usually it just snowballs after that. I keep thinking of other things to look for. I'm sure I look silly, bouncing back and forth across the store."

"Why not just download what you want?

"I do sometimes. But only when I know I just want one song. It's expensive that way. And, I don't know, maybe it's old fashioned, but I like to have the insert. My mom had this huge record collection, and it was one of my favorite pastimes, to pull them out and look at them. Explore the art and lyrics. My favorite was Emerson Lake & Palmer, _Brain Salad Surgery_. Do you know it?"

I look over at him. He looks a little surprised. "I know it. H.R. Giger cover art."

"Yes. Do you like E.L.P.?"

"I used to."

"Not anymore?"

"I can't listen to some music anymore." His normally seductive voice is flat and empty.

I'm not sure whether to push or leave it be. But I'm curious. "Not any E.L.P. then? Or just... specific songs?"

"At first it was just 'Lucky Man.' I heard it, I don't know... I wasn't prepared... I…" It's almost like he's forgotten I'm here, his voice trails off before regaining its cool distance. "And now it's Greg Lake's voice entirely."

I run through the lyrics to "Lucky Man" in my head, turning Greg Lake's beautiful voice into a chipmunk's as I speed through it.

_He went to fight wars, for his country and king. Of his honor and glory, the people would sing._

I stop short and look over at him. His jaw is clenched so hard it looks like it might break off. I decide to change the subject. "My other favorite album cover was Supertramp. Where the waitress has the glass of orange juice, or maybe it's a milkshake. I don't remember now. But I do remember that the Manhattan cityscape was made out of, like, salt and pepper shakers and pitchers and things."

He is nodding. "_Tarkus_ was a good album cover, too."

I'm surprised he goes back to E.L.P. if it disturbs him so much. "The like... armadillo tank?"

His intensity breaks into a smile as he pulls in beside the music store. "_Disco_ Armadillo Tank."

"God, no."

"That's what I always thought it looked like. A big, battle-ready, disco armadillo."

I laugh and adopt my best infomercial voice. "Disco Armadillo Tank. Useful in absolutely every possible party situation. Run out of booze? Send Disco Armadillo. Need ice? Disco Armadillo has you covered. Party crashed by total losers? Disco Armadillo will clean them out. With Disco-Force, if necessary."

"Now, Bella, Disco-Force is never necessary," he chides me with one of his genuine smiles. The kind that crinkle his eyes and show all his teeth. My favorite of his smiles.

"Okay, so how about Disco-Threats?"

"Disco-Threats are enough to clean me out."

"No disco?"

"Too... peppy."

We climb out of the enclosed warmth of his car and shut the doors, meeting up again at his bumper before heading towards the store.

"So, what do you like to listen to?" I ask.

"I like all kinds of stuff, really. I go in phases with music. I'm sorta into classic and bluesy right now."

We stop in the entryway and I look up at him. "Show me."

He shakes his head slightly. "Show you?"

"Pick something for me. Something you're really into right now."

"For what?"

"Humor me, Edward. Make amends with music."

"Amends, huh?"

We step inside the shop and I nudge him. "Go find something."

We part. We browse. Our eyes find each other periodically from across the aisles. I can tell he is in the S section... or maybe T. I move over an aisle to the L's. We are looking at each other directly over the partition now. His long, tapered fingers are flipping CDs easily. Click, click, click. But he already has one in his hand. He smiles at me.

Click, click, click.

I slide down the aisle a little. To the M's. Across from me, he mirrors my movement.

Click, click, click.

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><p>**EPOV**<p>

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><p>My fucking mouth. I'm no better than Alice, really. Just a different brand of lack of control.<p>

With Bella, it's like I can't help myself.

She's a temperamental cat who shows you its belly, tempting you with its fuzziest side. You know if you try to rub it, you will get claws and fangs.

Is that really what this comes down to? Bella's claws and fangs? The fight in her? The strength, the will? Is it just because she frustrates me to no end? She's unpredictable, she's aloof, she adopts a pretense of imperviousness that surprises me. I know she isn't indifferent to me, and when the pretense slips, it's like seeing behind a mask. It feels licentious, suggestive of impropriety, suggestive of so much I have yet to understand about her. I need to see behind her mask.

All the things I derided about her appearance are the things that are driving me crazy. When I close my eyes it's her lithe form, the color of her skin, how it shows her heat and her shade. I'm going nearly mad wondering what sorrow darkens the petal-like skin under her decadent and generous eyes.

And really, when I think about it, I don't give two fucks if she doesn't have unnecessary flesh available. She's invaded me, with the stealth of a strike force and with the same irreversible consequences. It's her that I want.

Not for the first time, I wonder what it is exactly that I want from her. It used to be that I was very clear on this.

Very clear.

A month in the sun has given me heatstroke of the brain, maybe.

The bright, vivid hair and flesh of previous conquests all dissolve into Isabella Swan, even at my most earnest moments. Moments where I am attempting NOT to think of her. Moments when it would be rude to think of her.

I watch her now as she flips through CDs, occasionally pulling one out, looking intently at the cover before flipping it over to the track listing. Her eyes stray to me often. I always feel it. When they fall on me, I always know. It's like her touch, it's physical.

She's so fucking oblivious. Men try to be discreet while she stands next to me, but they all turn to watch her as she passes. She moves like a dancer, like she's underwater, like everything she touches, including the air, is tactile to her. People notice her. She doesn't see them.

Like this fucking tool with dreadlocks standing behind her in the next aisle. He's browsing through CDs with his back to her, but he keeps peeking over his shoulder. If I read him right, he's considering saying something to her.

Even 'hello' is unacceptable.

"Bella." Fuck. My tone again. Her head snaps up.

I clear my throat and let my fingers find the small scar at my hair line. I palm it. "Sorry. Just. Pick something for me, too."

"Okay." Her tone is hesitant. "You want to give me parameters?"

"Just make it something that you love."

The tool took one look at me, saw my _she's mine_ face, and moved to the next aisle. He was never even a bleep on her radar.

"Something I love? I love so many things, half the store, likely."

"Show me something… I don't know."

"Something you don't know. Hmmmm." Her brows come together. God, she is fucking adorable. "This might take a few minutes."

"I'm going to go check out while you decide."

"Kay." She's totally distracted. I walk up to the register, noticing how the females watch me. The males are watching Bella. I look at her. She seems so obtuse in this moment. Does she really not notice? Or does she just PRETEND to not notice.

"Find everything ok?" the guy behind the counter asks.

"Yes. Thanks." I pull out my wallet.

"She with you?" He gestures towards Bella with a sideways tilt of his head.

I give him a look.

"Just asking man. She comes in here all the time."

"I know."

He takes the twenty I'm holding out and drops the subject. I glance over my shoulder, finding Bella not far from where I left her.

She peeks at me through a dark curtain of hair as she makes a selection. I smile and give her a _get over here_ gesture with a backwards nod of my head. She strides over and sets a small stack of discs on the counter as the clerk puts my single selection into a yellow bag.

His tone when he talks to her, is way different than it was with me. It's reverent, even though he is saying the exact fucking thing. "Find everything, ok?"

"Yep. Thanks." She puts a cool hand on mine, pushing it away, dismissing my obvious intent to pay, signified by my wallet still being out. She pulls a small battered wallet out her coat pocket and lights up my insides with one of her full-bloom smiles.

A very different kind of dignity, this girl.

She pays and we hurry from the store to the Jag. Wind catches Bella's hair as soon as we hit the sidewalk, making her appear like a white-faced banshee with wild, freethinking locks, before we duck into the car. She trembles next to me, tucking her hair down and behind her ears. It's still a chaotic mess, though.

I crank the heated seats up. Relief is immediate. "Oh, that's nice," she sighs.

She turns to me, crooking one leg up with her knee bent over the console, like she did that first time I gave her a ride. Her legs are so fucking long. Her skirt is so fucking short. Her tights are SO fucking OPAQUE.

"Do you want to exchange now?"

"Sure." She slides a shrink wrapped cardboard case out of her bag and hands it to me. I look at it. It's decorated with a crude painting of crows against an orange and brown sky. I hand her my bag and watch her pull the single jewel case from inside it.

"_Tedeschi Trucks Band_. Derek Trucks?" she asks aloud and turns it over.

I nod, but she isn't looking at me.

"What's your favorite song?"

"Listen to it… and you tell me."

She turns to face me now. "That's a tall order. Considering we don't know each other all that well."

"You know me well enough, I think." I echo the night at Alice's party and she quirks a brow. "And anyway, if I tell you my favorite track, you might not listen to the whole thing. And I'd like to hear your guess."

"My guess will probably just end up being… whatever my favorite song on the album turns out to be."

"That will be interesting, too."

"Alright. You have to do the same then."

I flip over _Good Morning, Magpie_ and read the track listing. "I already know your favorite. It's the first track, 'Kentucky Bourbon.'"

She laughs. "Wrong. That's my favorite _drink_."

"Okay, well, so I don't have an unfair advantage, the first track on _Revelator_ is not my favorite either."

"What a gentleman you can be." She looks mischievous. I just smirk and force my attention back to the disc in my hand.

"I think I'm going to like this album. They have a song called 'As Long as There is Whiskey in the World.' That's like, my theme song."

She snorts. It's an endearing, delicate little sound. "Why do you think I picked this album for you? It was the first one that came to mind."

"Are you calling me a lush?"

"I would never. Not on a Saturday, anyway."

"Remind me to call you tomorrow for your honest opinion of me."

"So, I should expect to hear from you… around… what, one or two? When the hangover wears off?"

"Noon at the latest. I recover quickly."

"Are you sure you want my HONEST opinion?" Her eyes are bewitchingly sinister.

"Absolutely. As long as it involves the words masculine and irresistible."

She scrunches up her mouth and nods like she's mulling it over.

"You could really sell it by giving me your honest reaction to my masculine-ness and irresistible-ness. You could use words like want and wet."

Her lips part and she looks sideways at me. Her incredulity dissolves almost as soon as I see it.

"Wow. Sounds like we will be having a touch of phone sex tomorrow." Her voice has retained the breathless incredulity I glimpsed in her face.

"Change of plans. I will be calling much earlier. Like tonight."

She laughs.

"You think I'm joking."

"I don't know what to think."

"I just told you. Masculine… and…"

"Irresistible. I got it."

"Okay. I may quiz you when I call tonight. Be ready."

"Maybe I should write it down. What was it again?" Her expression relaxes into one of false ditziness. I just smile.

"So, what now?" I pull into traffic.

"Can you drop me at my car?"

The levity fades as the Jag flies towards the end of our time together. A still silence settles in the small vehicle, and Bella turns her face from me to look out her window. The view of her ear peeking out from her tangled mess of hair causes a small flutter of anxiety to work its way into the steady beat of my heart.

"Do you have to go?"

She looks at her watch and nods. "I have to get Jake out of the house. Although, I don't at all look forward to walking him in this weather. Oh well, the cold makes you appreciate the warm – right?"

I know exactly what she means. I feel like I am leaving the warm, headed into the cold, stale, unused air of my condo.

"I was on the swim team my freshman and sophomore year of high school. We had this one meet, it was storming. I remember standing on the springboard before the 500 meter, already soaked and freezing from the rain, wondering why the hell I had picked this sport. Wondering how the hell I was going to jump into that pool. I could have been playing basketball in the warm gym… but no. I had to be a swimmer. Then, I couldn't find my bus pass and had to walk home in the rain. I was wet and cold for so long. I almost forgot what it meant to really be warm. I will never forget how good it felt to take a hot shower and put on clothes fresh from the dryer. And I had the next day off school, so my mom and I stayed up late watching _Soap_ reruns on Comedy Central. That was… a great day. A freezing, alive, really great day."

She told all this to her window, but now she turns to me. "I guess after that, I can handle an hour in the wind with my dumb dog. At least I have hot mashed potatoes and gravy to look forward to."

I pull in next to her car and kill the engine. She slips the CD I gave her into her bag and looks at me expectantly.

I'm not done being with her. I'm not done hearing about her life. I'm not done touching her. I'm so not done.

Maybe she isn't done either, because she asks, "Did you play any sports… in school?"

I shake my head. "Just the mandatory P.E. and I sucked at that."

She looks a little surprised. "Really?"

"Really. I was… awkward, as a youth."

"I don't believe it."

"Believe it. I was the figurative 98 pound weakling. A 98 pound, band-dork weakling. At least I didn't need glasses. Then it would have been straight up cliché."

Her eyes sweep me. I can tell she is wondering when I filled out. But what she asks is, "Band? What instrument do you play?"

"Did. Not do."

"Did, then?"

"I played piano and guitar, a little stand-up bass. Some flute."

"So many." She's quiet a moment. "Which was your favorite?"

"It doesn't really matter. It didn't then. And it doesn't now."

Her voice is tentative. "Does it sound foolish, if I say, it matters to me?"

I look at her. Her contemplative expression. Is she pitying me? What the fuck has Alice told her? I can only fucking guess.

"Piano, then." My voice has that hard edge again.

"Don't do that, Edward."

"Do what?"

"Get that angry tone. We are so close to being able to say we had a NICE afternoon together, despite the rough start. Don't spoil it."

I open my mouth, then let it close. I feel the muscles in my jaw working.

She laughs her involuntary throaty laugh. "So. You're a pianist. And here I thought you were just a dick."

I'm trying not to smile. But I can't help it. She is just so fucking amused**.** "You think that's funny?"

She bites her lip. "A little. Yeah."

I nod. "Okay, Bella. What about you? Do you play an instrument?"

"Nope. I am the Bob Costas of music."

"What?"

"I love it. But I can't play a note. Can't carry a tune to save my life. Like Bob Costas. He loves baseball. Never played."

"I didn't know that."

"Yeah. He's just a broadcaster. But man, is he opinionated about baseball."

"Like you are... about music?"

"I can be."

"I'm glad I no longer play… if you are such a critic."

"I'm not _that_ big a critic. And… why… don't you play?"

That is a hard question to answer. Hard to answer without sounding like a nutcase. So I just shrug.

"You are such an enigma, Edward." She reaches out her hand and runs her palm gently over my knuckles. "And I know I won't get enough time to solve it."

Her eyes tentatively find mine. My words are out before I can snatch them back. "I don't want you to go."

I lean across the center console and kiss her cheek. I feel her lashes brush against the side of my mouth as her eyes fall closed. Then open. We're looking at each other. And then we're kissing. Again.

Fuck.

I want to consume her. I want to integrate what she is into me. I want to be inside of her, her body and more. Who she is. I want to be part of it. Even if it's just for a minute. Or an hour.

That purring noise is her. The groan is me.

The car is small, but somehow I coax her awkwardly into my lap. She straddles me, the bulk of our coats bunching between us. My eyes are burning. I'm sure it's a flame synchronized with the swelter of her center, radiant through her stockings, scorching me even through denim.

I wind my hand up in her hair and yoke it back gently, finding the zipper at her throat and pulling it down to expose her neck and collarbone. I pull her back to me so that I can kiss her there, so that I can feel her pulse against my lips. I can taste her whimper under my teeth, before it even clears her windpipe.

She brings her hands up to frame my face, as she pulls my upper lip into her mouth, sucking it, dragging her teeth over my skin. Then she has my bottom lip, nipping it gently. It's soft, it's silky… the urgency of it is amplified exponentially when her tongue touches mine. I strain beneath her, as I feel the tips of her fingers pressing insistently into my hair.

At least part of me is inside of her. Part of her is inside of me. Can a kiss be made up entirely of ferocity? Made up entirely of hunger?

My hands grip her hips and follow the motion of her undulation against me. I curl my fingers into her, holding her to me in the apex of her figure of eight, holding her heat against my erection. The tension in me is no match for the demand in the flow of her body against mine. I buck involuntarily beneath her, my hips pulled upwards like the marionette I become in her presence. She holds my strings.

I feel lightheaded and dizzy, like watching a wave sink back into the ocean as a new one crashes against the shore. The elemental ebb and flow of the ocean that is Bella Swan on my lap.

How do I touch her, inside her skin? How do I hold in my hand all the parts of her I can never see? How do I taste the essence of who she is? Not her matter, but her being. How do I make it corporeal? How do I take ownership of it? How do I begin to identify the "it" I seek. Soul? Self?

Her.

How do I drown in her?

My fingers creep from her hips, up under some kind of undershirt, to the waistband of her skirt, as I search for the fever of bare flesh. She pulls her mouth from mine, leaving it swollen and tingling, to kiss my chin, my jaw, then my neck. Everywhere her mouth touches me, I burn.

Everywhere her mouth fails to touch me, I burn.

Maybe there is no drowning, only fire. Only a pyre.

As soon as my thumb comes into contact with the smooth skin of her stomach, she pulls back. Her warm hands pushing mine out of her top. Her eyes are a murky pool of simmering cocoa, soft, dark and dilated. Lusty, heavy lidded bedroom eyes, inviting me into her body. Her cheeks are flying the red flag of war. Tempting me with the warning of a battle I may not survive.

She looks as untamable as the wind. As uncatchable as the surf. As unbelievable as Heaven and Hell.

My heart is hammering against my ribcage like a runaway stallion, hooves churning blood into the pain of need.

"I want you," I rasp. I can't get a full breath. She's panting too. Her abused mouth. More. Mine.

We both jump when someone knocks on the back window.

"Get a room," the diluted voice comes from behind the vehicle.

Her intoxicating laugh chirps from her as she leans back against my steering wheel. It pushes her even tighter to me, enflaming me still further. "I can't believe they dare to touch your car." Her voice is husky and confidential. "Edward, go tell them. Hands off." My eyes keep hers as I let my hand find bare skin at the small of her back.

"Fuck the car. They can have it. I give it to them." I'm still searching for oxygen in the humidity of our shared proximity. Still searching for sanity. I care for nothing in this moment. There is nothing. There is only the life and breath alive between us.

There is only necessity. But… what… necessity?

I can't recall what is truly necessary. Her body? Her eyes? Her mind?

I didn't notice before, but she has words inked under her collarbone. I trace a finger over a partial word. "What does this say?"

She looks down, as if she doesn't remember. "It's a lyric. _Finding beauty in the dissonance."_

"Sounds… familiar." My thoughts are all fuzzy.

"'Schism.' By Tool."

Of course. _The poetry that comes from the squaring off between, and the circling is worth it. Finding beauty in the dissonance._

How apt.

I look up at her. Her hair is gloriously dark and thick, creating contrast with her alabaster face and rosy mouth.

I fight for my bearings. I grasp at meanings and definitions like the ripcord on a parachute. "Dissonance… like what you said… about cold. How it makes being warm so much better. Like music? You find the beauty in it when the uncomfortable chord breaks."

"You _are_ a musician," she breathes. Her voice and eyes are wondrous.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Or how about this..." Her lips spread upwards in a sly, thoughtful smile. "Dissonance is found in what you say, Edward. The chord breaks when you kiss me. Consonance is found in what I feel when you touch me."

Her eyes smolder as she takes one of my hands in hers, bringing it up to her face, bending her neck to press her cheek into my palm. This intimacy that lurks between us continues to unnerve me, how easily she touches me… and what it feels like when she does. Like her hand holds comfort itself. Like she seeks from my touch the comfort hers gives to me.

I slide my fingers from her face into her cool, fragrant hair.

"You try to sing a song I don't want to hear. But you can't. I'm trapped in your melody. Even when it sounds like reproach."

My dream from a month ago comes flashing back and through the fog of lust, the thick atmosphere of poetry, the opiate smoke of her voice, I feel a cold splinter of fear. Apprehension.

It spikes when she leans forward and lays her cheek upon my shoulder. My hands are cradling her to me like something I'm afraid to lose, one hand in her hair and the other at her back.

She clings to me like a refugee child.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

My condo is silent. I hate being here in the wind. There is no place where I don't feel exposed. There is no surface that doesn't have hard edges. There is no sound that is not discordant. There is no resolution to the dissonance I feel in every atom of my being.

Bella.

I open the liquor cabinet behind the teak bar and pull out a nearly empty bottle of scotch.

Insufficient unto this day are the contents herein.

I default to an almost full bottle of Crown, Special Reserve. Stashed behind it is a bottle of Wild Turkey I have no recollection of buying. I opt for that instead.

Bella.

I pull the shrink wrap off the CD she gave me earlier and leave it uncrumpling slowly on the counter. I feed the disc into the stereo and move to stare out the window towards the Sound. White caps are frothing around piers and barges that look like playthings from up here.

There is no place where I don't feel the sharp bite of cold. There is no place where I don't feel the weight of my own body. There is no ignoring the contrast between hurt and harmony. With my thumb I screw the cork out of the bottle and let it fall to the floor with a plunk-bounce-roll. The burn that comes with the first swallow gives false flush to my skin as the music rises behind me.

Bella.

The tattoo under her collarbone isn't new. It isn't for me. It isn't about me. While it may feel like it is, while I take it now in tribute, its origins are unknown. What it means to her today, might be different from the meaning it had for her when she got it. She can try to make it about me NOW, but once, it was about her.

It's about HER.

She is the dissonance. An uncomfortable note that will only make sense in retrospect.

I don't like it.

_And I know I won't get enough time to solve it._

Her words float through my mind. I don't like them. I don't like this… exposed, vulnerable feeling.

And this music is just pissing me off.

I fist my hair and tug. There is no place that offers relief…

Bella.

Before I'm conscious of having even moved, I've hurled the bottle into the heart of the open space behind me. I watch, as it spins, neck over body, spilling out its contents which hit the cool floor with flat wet splats, before it shatters against the stone countertop.

A mini explosion of glass and liquor.

I blink. I breathe. I get the Crown Royal and a glass before letting myself slide down the wall, across from the dangerous mess I just made.

I watch the Kentucky Bourbon as gravity pulls it; drop by fat pendulous drop, from the counter to the cold floor.

Plink.

.

.

Plink.

.

.

.

.

Plink.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I shimmy out of my skirt, leaving my tights on, and into my snowboarding pants and coat. I wrap a scarf around my neck, mouth and ears. I probably look like super-dork in full regalia, but whatever. It's cold out there. The kind of cold that finds its way inside my ears and makes them ache.<p>

Jake loves it. We walk determinedly to the trail and then break into a sprint. My speed encourages him, and then his is dragging me. But happily. With energy for days. Miles and miles.

Back home Jake dives into his water bowl while I run a bath. I feel like indulging so I throw in extra bubbles.

I divest myself of clothing and press my hand against my chest, fingering the small camouflaged ridge of silvery scar tissue. Right now, it does nothing to make me feel less whole. Right now, the world is a beautiful place. Right now, I am a bundle of aliveness. I am a vessel of appreciation for this earth, this body, flawed though it may be, and this current of internal blue flame that makes me impervious to the chill of the day.

I am a cup that runneth over.

Where did I read that the mythological Amazon warriors removed a breast by choice to make them better with a bow and arrow? I read that… somewhere. I can't recall.

I smile at the cognitive dissonance. How do I feel better about myself? I pretend I gave my breast up in order to be a better warrior, and not because a life threatening disease took it.

I look in the mirror. This Saturday was brought to you by the letter D. For Dissonance. For Distractions. I try to think of something else appropriate that begins with D. Delicious? Decadence?

I turn to my bedside table where my laptop just finished syncing my iPod. I eject it and plug it into my iHome, scrolling to Tedeschi Trucks Band and pressing play. I adjust the volume and get in the tub.

Holy Majoly. It feels so good.

My mind wanders as I wash my hair. I scrub my toes to a bright pink, my fingers and ears too. I contemplate my feet. I remember learning to kick-flip without sucking a bunch of water up my nose. How intimidating it was to have to keep trying it, working against the fear of pain. Water in my sinuses wasn't insurmountable, but it made me more than hesitant.

And then, the moment when you finally get it. You know exactly when to blow out of your nose, tuck your chin and shoot off the wall, letting the blast push you halfway across the pool before coming up for air.

The wobble in my knees, the wobble in my whole body after a hard swim.

Or am I thinking of Edward?

Susan Tedeschi is singing with Derek Trucks answering back with his guitar and his slide… and I'm leaning against the edge of the tub, watching my iPod do absolutely nothing except emit the hauntingly hopeful melancholy melodies of _Revelator_.

Classic… and bluesy, indeed.

I get out and towel off, slide into jeans and a t-shirt. I check my watch as I strap it back on. Sam and Leah will be here soon, so I head into the kitchen to heat up leftovers.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I should eat something. But I don't really want to move. I don't really want to feel the stiffness that has set into my back and legs. I don't really want to watch the room spin from a different perspective. Besides, there is no food in my refrigerator.<p>

Why did I come back here? Why do I ever come back HERE?

Why did I leave an empty tropical beach to return to this life? This marble and steel condo, the canned air oppression of my office, the silent plea of selling insurance and filling out online forms. Everything is a rigid neutral here. Gray skies, black filing cabinets, taupe countertops.

Eyes like a swirl of mud and garnet on the bottom of a riverbed.

Because I deserve it. I deserve the purgatory of Seattle drabness and the daily punishment of "_Cullen Insurance, this is Edward."_

I get numbly to my feet and wrap my hand around the impersonal plastic of my cell phone, the bright glow of the display hurts deep inside my skull, and my eyes squeeze closed in reaction. I punch out a number and the sound of the line ringing makes me cringe inwardly. I already feel the ache of disgust cramping my neck.

"Edward?" she says on the other end of the line.

"Yeah. I'm back."

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>The next day I have a meeting with Jane. She pulls out her calendar and starts going over dates, start times, locations, color schemes, menus. I'm taking detailed notes and already feeling fatigued. I have parties right up until Friday December 23rd. Merry Christmas.<p>

"Now Bella. Best for last."

Oh boy. My pen is at the ready. My heart skips quickly. Edward Cullen's Christmas Party. Despite the jocular nature of the exchange, I thought he might actually call me last night. But he didn't. I guess… out of sight, out of mind.

I have no idea if I would have answered, had he.

That isn't true. I carried my phone around with me most of the evening, confounding myself by repeatedly checking it for missed calls.

I sigh.

"So – it's at 1521. You've been there. Remember the anniversary party you did in April?"

I nod.

"There are service elevators that will take you to the entertainment area. But he isn't using that. He's holding the party in the condo. He reserved the event kitchen though, so you can set up there. However, that will make a lot of extra work for you."

"It's okay." Edward Cullen already makes me work.

Jane gives me the menu and a floor plan of the condo with her heavy hand marking where food will be set up. Bar, coffee service, desserts. This is going to be interesting, to say the least. Seeing where Edward… lives. Where he eats and sleeps. The people he associates with.

"Am I working New Year's Eve this year?" I ask Jane.

"Do you want to? You worked it last year. So, it's up to you."

"I don't have any other plans."

"Well, let me know by the 15th, okay?"

"No prob."

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Monday. If this morning were an exercise in Fight or Flight training, I would be demo-ing FLIGHT. I am having a low day, a day where I just don't feel like I have it in me to face Edward Cullen. My emotions are raw and very close to the surface. Very, very close. I don't know if I can face his derision. If that's what's in store for me today. With Edward, you just never know.

But there is no ducking work today. Not after a four day weekend. I can only imagine what my email inbox looks like.

After my shower, I find myself just staring into the mirror. I never really thought the circles under my eyes were that bad. I mean, they're a little shadowed, for sure. Especially when I don't sleep well. When I toss and turn trying to find that elusive comfortable position that doesn't exist.

How do I break this doom and gloom?

I can't go to work like this.

I turn on my iHome and consider it. I need power music. I need "Rainbow in the Dark" by Dio. Or maybe some Siouxsie and the Banshees. Something strong.

I go for The Sparks. I FORCE myself to sing along.

_You hear the thunder of stampeding rhinos, elephants, and tacky tigers!_

God, I love his falsetto.

And then I'm dancing. I'm singing into my hairbrush, but not consistently, because even though I've heard this song a thousand times, I have no idea what half the lyrics are.

I think I will Google it at work.

I'm on a roll. I decide to shuffle and see what I get. Pantera. Sometimes my iPod just KNOWS me.

_Under the lights where we stand tall, nobody touches us at all!_

I sweep my wet hair into a pony tail and growl at my reflection. I jump onto my bed. Jake looks totally inconvenienced. Too bad, dog. I'm rocking it this morning.

To the closet!

I'm pulling on a deep blue cowl neck sweater when INXS comes on. Then I'm brushing my teeth. It's sloppy because I keep trying to sing along with the toothbrush in my mouth. These are the moments when it's good to live alone.

When I look like a rabid wet rodent with musical ADD.

I collect my lunch from the fridge, my iPod, my keys, my bag. I head to the car. I'm about halfway to work when I realize I forgot to grab my improved mood on the way out.

I pull into the lot and lookee there. The Jag. And it's parked in one spot this morning, instead of ten, conveniently located directly next to where I let the Isuzu rumble to a stop.

I just look at it for a minute. The thrill of it is thin today. The excitement that I thought I would feel when Edward was back to work… feels more like foreboding. Like opening an empty fortune cookie.

No fortune.

Maybe I'm the only one who gets the empty cookie and thinks it means no future. I don't know. I've never asked.

I lock up the car and head into the building.

The hallways are quiet. My suite is locked and dark. I flip on the lights and turn up the heat. I open my office and fire up the computer. Then I head to the break room to stick my lunch in the fridge.

The morning passes, quiet and still. I get caught up on email and voicemail. I run like a good little hamster in my wheel. The broker rolls in around eleven o'clock with Jasper and another agent. The office hums with new activity.

No sign of Edward. Not one. I feel like I can sense him on the other side of the wall though. The hallow feeling is gone. But it's been filled with something slightly hesitant and careful. Not the whipped cream and glitter I hoped for in his absence.

For some reason, the expression stuck in my head today is: "He's just not that into you." I really thought he would call me after he joked about it. It's not that I was HOPING for phone sex, I just sort of thought, after Saturday… in his car. I don't know what I thought. Maybe I'm deprived. Maybe I'm still looking for ways to hide. It's just that… on the phone, he can't actually see me. Of course, that could ultimately make things even more awkward. If he were to reference my breasts, plural, and I don't correct him. That's lying by omission, really.

It's probably good that he didn't call.

When I get my lunch from the break room, I honestly don't know if I want to run into him or not. It's moot, since I retrieve my lunch without incident.

Or so I thought.

Inside my lunch bag, right next to my PB&J, is the most unnatural looking rose I've ever seen.

It's blue. Brilliantly blue. Unnaturally, brilliantly, blue. I float it atop a Dixie cup of water. I can't keep my eyes from trailing back to it.

It completely reflects my mood. Unusual of color, the edges of its petals already starting to turn and crinkle, the glory of the bud it must have been, tainted and going limp with age and exposure. I wonder what it meant to him, when he picked it out for me.

When I leave, the Jag is gone.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Tuesday is wet. A perpetual drizzle hangs suspended in air. Breathing is a moist, cool affair, like sucking in fog. The beam of my headlights reflects back at me, and the gathering damp on my windshield confuses my cheap wiper blades, making them stutter over the glass.

Edward's car is parked, oh so casually, in the spot next to mine. Again. I still haven't seen or heard from him since Saturday. Unless you count the rose he left for me yesterday. I sort of don't.

I want to _see_ him. I want to smell him.

The melancholy of yesterday broke with the onset of my period this morning, and I can't help but wonder how I should handle our date, given that I will be vaginally indisposed. Not that I was planning on the evening progressing from "Hey, guess what…" to intercourse.

Honestly, I have no idea what my expectations are. I have no idea, still, if I am telling him or not. I justify it to myself by saying that I have to weigh his mood, and my courage, day of.

I just can't seem to get a full grip on where this is going for me. Where I want it to go. What I want from him. The expectation that claimed me early with my first dream of him has never completely subsided, and I find myself entangled in desires that I'm unsure if I should pursue.

I reason that I'm in this for some sort of sexual experience, maybe one where I can keep my shirt on. But that isn't an honest interpretation of how I really feel. For some unknowable reason, I feel like I am in it to win it. Like, Alice is right and I can be good for Edward. Or maybe he can be good for me.

Or maybe not.

Maybe when I'm beyond this, I can look back and find the _why_ of it. Right now, all I know is I carry him with me in every moment. Winter is descending on Seattle, but inside me, it's spring. Flowers are blooming. Everything is fragrant and everything glows.

Fuck. I just noticed the seam at the hem of my slacks has come unstitched. I bend and hitch it up a little, so I don't drag it while I walk and in my diverted state of attention, I round the corner right into the gray on gray of Edward's suit, my forehead smacking into his ribcage.

"Bella." His hand finds my arm, stabilizing me as I come upright, keeping me near to him. "Your comedic timing is excellent." I look up into his shaded green eyes, his hair wild and coppery under the cool fluorescent lighting. How does he manage to look more and more exquisite every time I see him? How is it that the beauty I used to think detached and frosty, makes me give him my warmest smile?

"Edward. Hi." He just holds on to me, his gaze jumping between my eyes like he doesn't recognize me. "Sorry, I was focused on my hem." I gesture down to my ankle.

"You've come… unstitched." He looks contentedly amused.

"Yes."

"You have one of three options now." His voice is very matter of fact.

"Oh?"

"You can either let out your other hem, or you can sew THAT one back up." He gives a small nod to my slightly damp and bedraggled pant leg.

"That was only two options. What's three?"

"You can accompany me into that janitor's closet and ditch your pants altogether."

I shake my head at him. "I don't, not for one minute, believe that you would do me in a janitor's closet."

"Is that a dare, Bella?"

"No. Statement of fact. Have you ever BEEN in that closet?"

He scratches gently at his jaw. "Is it pretty gross?"

"Let's just say, I think this building is about eight years old. However, the mop in there dates back to Marc Anthony and Cleopatra."

"Well, at least the mop has experience with these kinds of things."

"What… the Humpty Dance?"

I break awkwardly into song and dance, not caring about my hem or the silliness of my impression. "I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom… I'm crazy, allow me to amaze thee. They say I'm ugly but it just don't faze me… "

He laughs, it's authentic and free of any posturing. I consider myself today's grand prize winner. A grand prize winner with some old school rap stuck in her head for the rest of the day.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

On Wednesday morning, it dawns on me that I have no idea what kind of coffee Edward drinks. I text him.

He replies while I'm in line at Starbucks.

**Cream. No Sugar.**

I'm texting him back when I feel him next to me. I look up. He smiles. I smile. It's a fucking smile-fest.

Then he kisses the top of my head like we've been a couple forever. I sort of melt a little. A lot. I melt a LOT.

The barista hands him his cup with adoration, I get mine with considerably less fanfare. At the cream and sugar station I watch as he dumps out a couple fingers worth of coffee to make room for half-n-half. He holds his lid to the side and raises an eyebrow at me. I nod. I got it. He likes his coffee about the color of English Toffee. Can do.

He opens the door for me on our way out, and we each head in the direction of our respective vehicles.

We didn't say a single word to each other.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

On Thursday, I beat him to work. By three seconds. I can see him in his car behind me as I pull into my space. He glides in next to me. His suit is brown. It looks like it was made for him. It's perfectly tailored.

We're halfway across the parking lot when he asks, "How do you feel about Italian?"

"Oh. For tomorrow?"

He nods.

"I like it."

"Will you let me pick you up?"

"That means you drop me off, too."

"I like that idea."

"It makes me nervous," I say, honestly.

"Why, Bella? You aren't some blushing virgin." He stops walking and looks at me intently, like it's a possibility he hasn't considered before. "I mean, you're not, right?"

"No. I mean. Blushing… yes." Now, very, very much so.

His face looks like I've smacked him. "_Are_ you?"

I shake my head, exasperated. He looks a little relieved. If only it were that.

He gets a contemplative look on his face. "How many men… have you been with?"

"That's kind of a personal question… don't you think?" My neck is hot and my ass is starting to sweat. We're going to argue now, I feel it coming.

"It is. Tell me anyway."

"Are you interested in telling me how many women YOU'VE been with?"

He smiles his little ego-smile. "Not particularly. And, I can't, in any case."

"Nice."

His eyebrows jump and his jaw skews in an expression of self defense. His whole face is silently saying, _"I'm a man, it's different." _

I just shake my head at him in mock disgust. "When you remember, I'll remember."

I keep walking into the building. He catches up to me. "More or less than ten?"

"Pig."

"Shrew." His tone is good natured.

"Fiend."

"Yep."

I just shake my head at him as he passes behind me while I stick my key in the door of my suite.

"Five?" Interesting how his number went down, instead of up. He can sense my inexperience. Just as I sense his abundance of it.

"Bye, Edward."

He laughs. Today, I don't feel like I won anything.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I spend Thursday night in a slightly agitated state of mind. I go running in the dark. I try music. I clean my house. I tell myself it's because it's really dirty and not because I am having company. I play _get the thing _with Jake.

I lay awake in bed staring at my ceiling.

I try to turn my mind off, but all I can think of is the look I anticipate from him. At best, sympathy. At worst, disgust. Either way, it's probably over tomorrow.

I feel like I should have told him already, while paradoxically feeling like I can't tell him yet. And then I feel like a coward when I consider telling Jasper to tell Alice.

No, I'm not doing that.

I'm going to tell him myself.

Likely tomorrow, but maybe not. I roll onto my stomach and fall asleep unresolved.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Every nerve I have is frayed and rubbing against my internal clock, counting down to twelve hours from this moment.

Tick. Imagining sitting in a restaurant with Edward, watching him chew.

Tock. Imagining his mouth on me.

Tick. His hands. Tock. His walk. Tick. His eyes. Tock. Well, yeah.

Tick. I still haven't decided what I'm wearing. Tock. I haven't decided if he's picking me up.

Fuck it.

I'm flying by the seat of my pants. It's not like I'm headed into a gladiatorial exposition in a Roman coliseum. It's not like I'm diving with sharks or storming the beach at Normandy. I will survive this evening. Somehow, I will.

That's not how it feels though. Today feels like the last day of 1999, like each minute passing brings me closer to Rapture.

It's a different kind of D-Day.

I drive too fast. My music is too loud. My jitters are making my stop at Starbucks totally unnecessary. I get coffee for Edward. I doctor it up for him. I pull into work, invade my building like Joan of Fucking Arc and take a deep breath before sauntering as casually as I fucking can into Allstate.

Edward's clean, streamlined office is warm, with the lights reflecting off of polished surfaces and the planes of his freshly shaven face.

"Good morning." I smile as he stands.

"Good morning."

We just look at each other. He looks very serious, but something wicked is dancing in his eyes. He looks as if… as if… he knows what I look like without my shimmy.

Fiddle-dee-dee. I exhale sharply. "I got you coffee." I offer him the cup.

He takes it and sets it on his desk. "Thank you."

"You look nice," I say. It sounded much better as the WOW that my brain whispered into my panties when I first walked in the door. The words sound flat and empty compared to the Superquadro engine that blared to life inside my chest at the sight of him.

"As do you."

"Thank you."

"So?"

"You know where I live. I'll be ready at seven."

He blinks slowly, exaltedly. Languorously. His smile is more like he is showing me his fangs, giving me a preview into how I will die. He tilts his chin down. "I know where you live," he affirms.

I am so fucked.

**(((High Fidelity)))**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to this author.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

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.

* * *

><p>Romance is a food that all hearts crave. ~Theda Bara<p>

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>3:45<p>

.

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3:48

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3:55

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3:59

And I'm gone. So is the Jag. I drive home in a blur, pull into my driveway and kill the engine. My warpath leads me right into the shower, where I brutally scrub my hair and every crevice of my body. I shave. Twice. I chastise myself.

I set my hair in big red Velcro curlers to get it to dry faster and shinier. I powder and lotion and slip into my nicest matched underwear, throwing an old tattered wife-beater over it while I berate myself outside the closet door. I should have bought something new. I should have cancelled this date. I should have told him. I should have had my ovaries and all the rest of my plumbing taken out so that I wouldn't want to fill it up with Edward Cullen's fucking cock.

I am so stupid.

Revealing… he said. I have nothing to reveal. Except, maybe, something deeper than physiognomy.

I don't know how to pick an outfit that is revealing while deceptive. I don't know how to pick out an outfit that says, _I'm dying for you to fuck me, but not tonight_. I don't know if I own a stitch of clothing that even qualifies to be considered for this evening's clusterfuckery.

I am so, so stupid.

I need an outfit that says, _I'm vulnerable, so don't fucking fuck with me. _I need an outfit that won't add to my feelings of rejection should his reaction stop the evening in its tracks. I need an outfit that is not in the mood to take shit from anyone.

I need the outfit of a warrior, not a virgin sacrifice. I need something that looks good with a sword.

I flip on the light in my spare bedroom and pull some of my mom's stuff out of the closet. Her box of wigs, which I keep for the simple fact that I may need them. Her journals. Her keepsakes. Her power wardrobe. Leather and lace, blacks, reds, indigos. I know what I'm looking for. A dress she wore to a holiday party when I was fourteen. It's black, it's floor length, it's one shouldered with the excess material draping down the back. I remember putting it on once, trying to imagine an event that warranted a dress like that. Trying to imagine a Hollywood Premier or some Black Tie Affair where I would go and be very, very important. Magical, even.

I pull out a garment bag that holds all kinds of promise and unzip it. There it is. I pull it out and take it under the light. Not moth-eaten, not dusty. I sniff it and check the tag. Machine wash, lay flat to dry. It's not the majestic Auntie Mame dress I remember. It's light in my hands. It's simple. It's perfect. I throw it in my dryer with a dryer sheet and set the tumble to low.

I peruse my shoes. I scour my jewelry box. I agonize over my lack of fancy.

I adjust the straps on my bra and put in my prosthetic.

I breathe. I brush my teeth.

Fifteen minutes later I am looking in my full length mirror and feeling like an imposter. The slit of this dress goes all the way up to my fucking panties. My tattoos are ALL on display, save those on my right shoulder. I look like false fucking advertising, because the dress actually squeezes my left breast into a tiny swell.

There is no way I can pair this dress with Chucks. This dress needs shoes I don't understand.

I raid my photo albums, looking for the picture of my mom in this dress. I find it right as my phone rings. I look at the display. Jasper. I swipe to accept the call and put it on speaker.

"Yo."

"Hey Bells."

"Hey. What's up?"

He chats me up for a few minutes about work before asking me about tonight. If I need anything. I wonder if that is the real reason for his phone call. I'm appreciative.

"Actually, I could use your male perspective for a minute, if you're available. Can you come over?"

"Sure. Ten minutes, kay?"

Thank God. I study the photo of my mother. She has silver clasps on her forearms. Her own hair is pinned back in a French twist and her shoes are these strappy things there is no way I could pull off.

I'm sitting on the floor, cross-legged with my knee sticking out the slit in the dress, flipping through the album when Jasper lets himself in and finds me. I set the book to the side and stand.

He goes all Paleolithic on me, sticking his lower jaw out and saying, "Damn." He pulls his earlobe. "Nice dress."

"I feel like a fraud, Jasper."

"Bella. You don't look like a fraud. You look like a woman who knows how to wear a dress. Where did you get that?"

"It was my mother's."

"It looks like it was made for you. The shoulder is even on the right side."

"I feel like I should change."

"No, you shouldn't. You just need to take a few minutes and get comfortable in this. It's not that different from the dress you wore to On the Br_Ink._ In fact, it covers way more of you, and it's elegant." He takes my forearms in his hands. "Bella. You look beautiful."

"Thank you."

"What shoes are you wearing?"

"I don't suppose Converse work?"

"No chance. What else do you have?"

I head into my bedroom with Jasper in tow. I gesture at the small pile of shoes in my closet that are mostly sneakers, my big boots, and a couple pairs of sandals.

"That's it?"

"Well, yeah."

"Alice has a whole room of shoes. What size do you wear?"

"Seven and a half."

"Hmmm. Are you wearing nylons?"

"I wasn't planning on it. Do you think I should?"

"Only if they're thigh-highs. Give him apoplexy." He laughs.

"That's not funny, Jazz. My heart is going a mile a minute."

"Chill, Bells. Breathe. Good. Look. It's just Edward. It's not a big deal. You've faced more intimidating situations that this."

"Yeah, but I didn't have to do it in formal wear."

"You can do this. You can." He steps back and snaps a pic of me with his phone. Then he's dialing. "Allie? Shoes. Seven and a half. Okay?"

I can hear Alice chattering through the phone. I roll my eyes at Jasper. I'm not at my best right now, and my attitude could use improvement. Jasper gives me a look that says as much. Then he goes and raids my fridge for a beer while I get busy on my eyes, drawing out careful cat-eyes with liquid liner. My hand is shaking though, and I smudge one side. Fuck. I say it out loud.

Jasper comes into my bathroom and hands me a mug. I look in.

"No cherries?"

"Just drink it, Bella."

I do. I feel my cheeks light up like lamps, warm and glowing. "Nice. Thank you."

"Better?"

I nod.

I turn back to my reflection. I get a rubber-tipped smudger and work both eyes into a haze of smoke. I opt for an iridescent, plum-colored shadow and comb mascara through my lashes. My eyes glow with a reddish tint, brought out by the purple. I like it.

"What are you doing with your hair?"

"I don't know… probably just down. What do you think?"

He nods. "I'd say, either all up or all down. The dress makes me think you want something classic, like a bun, but with that watch…" He gestures towards my watch and other wrist accessories, a couple of small leather bands with polished wooden beads, and a friendship bracelet that I helped Katie make for me. She has a matching one.

"These don't come off."

"They clash with your overall look."

"I don't care. Fuck it. I'm wearing sneakers." I head into my closet and pull out a pair. Jasper just watches me.

"You know what would be good?"

"Hmmm?"

"Remember a couple of years ago when you did that fallen angel costume for Halloween? How you had your hair, like braided, in a crown-thingie?"

"Yeah. Leah did that, though. I think she's working."

"Who's working?" Speak of the motherfucking devil. Leah is standing in the doorway to my bedroom. I didn't even hear her come in.

"Hey Lee. Remember that braid thing you did to Bella's hair for Halloween a few years ago?"

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Nice to see you, too."

"Seriously though."

"Sam and I were talking and, well... I brought you these." She hands me a Costco sized box of Trojans. Jasper is grinning like a dolt from the blue.

What in the ever loving fuck?

"I'm not sleeping with him."

Jasper and Leah share a _yeah right_ look.

I snarl and throw the big blue box on my bed. "You people."

"You probably shouldn't wear that dress, then," Leah says with a nod at my slit.

"Fucking-A," is all I have to say.

"Yes, she should."

Jasper and Leah look at each other. Leah's spine straightens as she comes to her full height in order to look Jasper right in the eyes. "I've seen the way that man looks at her. If I want to rip the dress off of her… well. He is going to be in pain."

"Good. It'll be empowering for Bella," Jasper replies.

"Empowering? It demeans her power."

"So says the lesbian. Look. I'm the man in this room. I say… she should wear the dress. Besides, I've spoken with him. At length, unfortunately. He deserves a little pain."

"And what about B? Does she deserve what she is going to get out of this?"

"Hello. I'm standing right-fucking-here, you guys." They both look at me. Leah's face is a portrait of feminine strength. Jasper looks equally determined.

"Lo?" Alice peeks around the corner into my bedroom.

I sigh. Gangs all here.

"Hey Allie. Ok. Tiebreaker is here. Should Bells wear this dress? Or is it too much?"

"Whoa whoa. I'm not wearing this outfit by committee," I interrupt.

"We're not a committee."

"You sound like a committee. Look. All I need to know is… is the dress too fancy?"

"No," Alice chimes in. "I know where he's taking you, and that dress is perfect. Especially with these shoes." She holds up a pair of T-Strap Mary-Jane heels that actually make me feel a little relieved. Small favors and all that.

I thank Alice and put them on. Everyone hangs out while Leah pulls the big curlers out of my hair and works it into a braided halo around my forehead, letting the extra length flow down from behind my left ear in soft waves.

The three of them are chatting like the clock isn't zeroing in on the end of my existence. Like we aren't standing in line for a rollercoaster that flips you upside down, a roller coaster with questionable locking mechanisms. I fill my lungs and slowly empty them. I think I need more Bourbon.

Leah puts a hand on my bare shoulder and squeezes it, like she can read my mind. I look up into her dark eyes. There is a world of words there. _I believe in you, I worry for you, I love you. He better not hurt you or I will kick his ass. _I slide my cold, nervous hand over her warm one and squeeze it. She flips her hand so that we are palm to palm and returns the squeeze.

There's a knock at my door. A casual authoritative knock that serves as the harbinger of my doom.

When Alice springs up to go answer it, followed by the growling foo dogs that are Leah and Jasper, I can't help but feel like my life suddenly shifted into some sort of sitcom-reality; one that would actually be improved by a laugh track.

Check that. It would probably be improved by the laugh track only when I trip over this dress. I am not going to trip. I am going to round the corner and meet Edward Cullen head on, like the motherfucking prom queen. Like motherfucking Auntie Mame herself.

I check the mirror. "Life is a banquet," I tell myself. "And most poor suckers are starving to death."

I'm not entirely Bella Swan in this dress. It's too late to change now. Instead of pink, my whole complexion looks a little ghostly. I pinch my cheeks.

I quickly transfer my shit from my messenger bag to a clutch. I grab the crushed velvet duster out of my closet, take one last breath of independence, and head out to the living room.

Whatever I thought I looked like, the words I used in my head to describe myself in this dress: Okay. Fraud. Façade. Faker. They evaporate when I see myself reflected in Edward's eyes.

They change. His mouth changes. His posture changes.

His eyes find mine, and for the briefest of moments, I feel that something indistinguishable is shared between us. Something that is not about sex or its pursuit. Something kindred, something like going home, like sucking into my vision all the things I most long to see. Something like victory. Like we ride into battle together. Like both our hearts are marching to the same war-drums.

Then I lose him as his gaze drops from my face, travels leisurely down to the floor and then back up again. He exhales sharply and gives me a smile I've never seen.

I thought I knew what his intent looked like. I was wrong. I have never seen this animal before. This animal is wild. This animal is hungry. I don't know where we're going for dinner, but I do know that this animal has decided that I am dessert.

"You look… stunning."

"I'm not sleeping with you," I blurt out.

Three pairs of eyes pivot from me to Edward for his reaction.

His thick brows arch, and smooth as silk he asks, "Ever?"

Like we are the only two people on the planet.

And we are. As usual, when Edward is near me, the volume on everything else is turned down. I hear only him. I feel only myself.

"No. Just. Tonight."

His smile changes. It's tight, but genuine. And his voice is soft when he says, "Okay."

"Okay?"

He holds his hand out, casually. "Let's go, Bella."

I put my hand in his and he pulls me into him, turning me slightly so we face the three people who have suddenly sprung back into existence.

Leah looks wary.

Jasper looks mischievous.

And Alice.

Alice looks like she might cry.

I slide my arms into my coat as Edward leads me out the front door. He opens the passenger door of his car for me… and then he closes it. I turn to watch him as he walks behind the car, swinging his keys around one finger and catching them.

Riding with Edward in his car is so easy now. It's comfortable, despite the heavy atmosphere clinging to us. He pulls out of my neighborhood without saying anything, hitting the freeway and pushing the Jag up to a cool eighty-five MPH.

The G-Force I feel has nothing to do with his speed. It has everything to do with the way he looks in his charcoal colored suit, his hair a controlled mess, swept up from his temples and flaring down into his face, the easy motion of his body as he shifts, the way one hand relaxes on the stick, the other on the wheel.

He is usually so blatant, and I find it interesting how surreptitiously his line of sight keeps tracing the slit down my left leg. Sideways glances keep dancing over all my exposed skin like so many iron filings pointing the direction of a magnetic field.

I tilt my head and shift my position, turning towards him slightly.

"I hope I'm not overdressed."

"No."

Silence.

He turns up the volume on the stereo. I turn it down. He gives me one of his cocky half-mouthed smiles.

"Where are we going?"

"Bella Italia."

"I've never been there. I've heard of it, though."

"It's good."

"You eat there often?"

He is still smirking, and I know why. Because of my name. "Often enough."

I feel a stupid question coming. I ask it anyway. "So. Do you remember how many women you've taken to this restaurant, at least?"

"Yes. I do."

"More or less than ten?" I ask, mimicking him.

He laughs. "I don't see why I should tell you."

"You're being evasive. Five?"

"I'm being evasive? That's the pot calling the kettle black."

"Yep."

The car is quiet, save the light sound of rubber barely meeting blacktop as we fly into the heart of the city.

"More than five," he says quietly. Then he looks at me, pointedly. "Less than ten."

The words _more than five_ strike me a little bit. I've worked in food service for a long time. Before I worked for Olympian Real Estate, I waited tables. I know this type, the handsome successful male who changes women like he changes his sheets. If not weekly, then close to it.

Part of me is wondering how I let myself get into this situation. The feminist in me is outraged with myself. But there is something else. Some other part of me, that feels triumphant that, for one night at least, I am the accessory this man decorates himself with. It's stupid, it's empty, it's shallow and it's vain. And I don't give a fuck. I feel like a woman. The way he looks at me... it makes me feel wanted. The fact that he is shallow, oversexed, and probably already working out his exit strategy does little to detract from that. What is between us is temporary, we both understand that. I think I do. I have my moments where I forget, but he always reminds me.

And that is good. I need to stay clear here.

"I always, Edward, appreciate your honesty."

He turns to look at me.

"I'm so tired of people saying things they don't mean. At least, when I'm with you… I feel like I know exactly where I stand."

He directs his attention back to the road and is quiet a moment before saying. "Where do you think you stand?"

I chuckle. "Some ladders have four rungs, some have thirty. There is always a bottom step. It still enables you to climb to the top."

"Bella. Are we talking about sex?"

"Isn't that the only language you speak?"

"That isn't fair. I haven't even mentioned it. In fact, you were the one who brought it up. With your declaration of non-participation."

"You don't have to mention it. Your eyes speak for you. And… I don't want any preconceived notions. Tonight."

"So, you're firm then?"

"I am."

"And I repeat. _Okay._ Let's just enjoy the evening."

Whatever I was expecting, it sure as heck wasn't this. This chill, relaxed man who 'just wants to enjoy the evening.' He measures my look of semi-astonishment.

"Since you appreciate my honesty, let me make something very clear, Bella. To use your analogy. I don't step foot on a ladder I'm not going to climb to the top. You get me? I'm an impatient man, by my nature, but I'm tempered. The climb may take ten minutes, it may take ten days. It's the view from the top that I'm after. I can climb as long as I need to."

"What if I take my ladder and go home?"

"You won't."

"How do you know that?"

"You are careful, but fair. When I think about it objectively, I can appreciate that. But you don't seem like a game-player, Bella. You don't seem like the girl who is going to uninvite me to her birthday party as a playground power play. I made it clear what I wanted from you. You made your terms clear. And here we are."

"I sort of insinuated that… well. I think I set the expectation for tonight incorrectly."

He nods slightly before turning to me with an amused expression. "I don't hold it against you."

We pull up in front of Bella Italia before he goes on. "I'd like you to relax, and let's just see how the evening turns out. I discarded my preconceived notions. I think you should, too."

"So, what you're saying, really, is game on?"

He just smiles. Fucking man.

But I'm smiling, too. I don't even know why.

"Are you hungry?"

"Starved," I say.

He smiles his half smile and gets out. A valet opens my door and Edward is there offering me a hand. His fingers wrap around mine and I grab my clutch as he pulls me out of the car, onto my feet. An indistinguishable amount of money is placed into the hand of a spotty-faced attendant, and we head inside.

I am so out of my element.

This place, in one word, is swanky. In two words, pretentious douchery. I know these people. I've waited on them for years. Men with coiffed salt and pepper hair are swirling wine in crystal glasses and sticking their pompous noses just inside the rim. Sniffing, passing judgment, leaning into wives that are aging painfully, bottle blonds with the struggle to remain wanted written in every line. Men with mistresses, with time to work on their golf swing, time to take yachts out on the bay. Everywhere, the glitter of jewels and silverware. Everywhere, the polish of disposable income.

Everywhere I look, a Viagra commercial. Every person, an actor selling some kind of bullshit. The bullshit of I'm still young, I'm wealthy, the lie thinly masking the desperation. Faces of denial, stretched around the thought, _Is this all there is?_

Or maybe, I'm the cynical asshole here.

Edward helps me out of my coat and hands it off for hanging. The upper class all turn to watch as I walk by; I can almost hear the riff-raff alerts going off all around me. The dress, the hair, none of it disguises the obvious fact that I don't belong here. I should have kept my coat on. I should have picked the location. I should have worn something with long sleeves. I should have moved to the Yukon as soon as I opened that fucking collection notice.

The waitress sticks a menu in my hands and all I can think is that this food better be fucking phenomenal. I've seen prices like these before, but usually not unless I'm shopping for car parts. I must make some sort of noise because she gives me a look.

"Um. Can I have a glass of water please?"

"Still or sparkling?"

Oh yeah. I'm in hell. "Sparkling, thank you."

She turns hopefully to Edward. He nods and says, "The same. And a Laphroaig 25. Neat. Thanks, Jenny."

Edward is gesturing towards me, like I might want a cocktail, but it's too late. Our server is gone. She got the order of the only person at this table that matters.

I watch her go. I can feel Edward watching me. I turn my attention to him. I feel, momentarily, like I'm outside myself, like I am looking down on this cream cloaked table with its gleaming silverware and black napkins, the burgundy and gold menus, the incredibly stylish male model, and the tatted up, dark haired pretender with unpainted nails and an aura of self conscious hesitation.

If this were a movie, I would be this awkward ugly duckling who turns out to be really cute under it all. Turns out to be a swan. We would hump like hormonal bunnies on Spanish Fly, and then he would fall madly in love with me because I am mysteriously different. Special. But this isn't a movie, and under it all, I'm not special, only scarred, and I'm probably also a biological dead end.

I start my zen cycle. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather… rinse.

Edward smiles at me.

He gives me his slow blink as he unfolds his menu, gives it the most cursory of glances before folding it back up and setting it in front of him. Now he's watching me, as I try to decide between a thirty-six dollar braised chicken or a thirty-four dollar plate of Pasta Puttanesca. I shit you not, the cheapest fucking entrees on the menu.

My eyes creep over the top and find Edward, looking highly smug. I fold up my menu and set it down.

"Thank you," he says, his voice confidential.

"For what?"

"That menu was blocking my view."

Ping ping. Pink cheeks.

"And for obliging me."

"Obliging you?"

"With your outfit. I was afraid I would pick you up and you would be in some high necked, full-sleeved garbage. Your shoulder, your skin. You look like a siren. Barely tamed by that dress."

I think I am going to die. If my whole evening is going to be about Edward Cullen seducing me with words, I am in fucking trouble.

"I feel a little out of place."

"I like it. It's…. a juxtaposition."

"You talk like an artist."

"And you look like a canvas. I want to know what it all means, but I sort of love the speculating. Like the apple blossoms. Is this the original sin or something else?"

"I'm not really religious. I don't buy into original sin. Do you?"

"There's that evasiveness. And yeah. Maybe. But more as the parable it's meant to be. Don't eat from the tree of knowledge. Remain blessedly ignorant."

I'm about to answer him when our waitress shows back up with two tall stemmed glasses full of water that spritz as she sets them down. She places the scotch in front of Edward. I watch her. She watches Edward. She is a beautiful woman, a mere minute past her prime. Her pressed white shirt and tie do nothing to diminish her ample bosom, or detract from her sparkling blue eyes. I get the feeling she knows Edward. I wonder if he always gets this table. I wonder if she is always his server.

I wonder how much of a joke I am.

She runs through a battery of specials and what wine should be paired with them. After she asks if we need more time to decide, Edward makes a questioning gesture at me. I order the gold-plated pasta and a diamond-crusted house salad. He orders lamb. He orders a bottle of wine. She compliments his choice.

She leaves. And it's just us again. I sip my water.

"So. You're not religious? At all?" he questions.

"Not in the classic sense."

He looks studious. "In what sense, then?"

"I don't know. I feel like there is something… bigger than me. I don't know if it's God, or energy, or an alien race with Earth as a really fucked up science project. I guess, if I believe in anything, it would be the soul. I believe that after this life some part of me will go on. I believe some part of my mother went on, or lingers here. She IS… somewhere. And I feel like one day, I will see her again."

"In Heaven?"

"Well, I don't know if it's Heaven. I sort of think of it as a different plane of existence. Or a different state of consciousness. You know? And if I'm wrong. If there is nothing, who I am in this incarnation will never know it. What about you?"

"I believe in nothing."

"You're an atheist?"

"Well, technically, I'm Catholic. But I firmly believe Carlisle would have been ex-communicated long ago if it weren't for his money. Fucking hypocrites."

"You were raised in the church? Like, you went to mass and that kind of thing?"

He nods. I think about his dog tags, tucked away in my hope chest, and the indication of No Religious Preference where his religion should be stated. "When did you lose your faith?"

"That's kind of a personal question, don't you think?"

"It is. But tell me anyway."

He sighs. A gentle melancholy sigh that shows me a glimpse of the boy he must have been. A boy who must have loved music. An awkward gangly boy who grew into the sturdy man before me. Back then was his hair half so wild? Did a different kind of mischief light his jade eyes? Did he whine about being dragged to mass? Did he squirm in his seat while being preached at?

"It was a long process. It probably started when I was around twelve. When I was a kid, I didn't question theology. I just believed it. I don't remember exactly what started me questioning. I remember Alice gossiping about our Youth Minister and how he was having an affair with one of the congregation. Broke up a marriage, ultimately. Anyway, everyone eventually knew all about it, because they got married."

"Wow. Sounds kind of scandalous."

"I don't really know. I was a kid at the time. He was… well, he was a very opinionated man. I still think, if he had been more of a contemporary spiritual leader, someone who imparts the stories and the guidance, instead of telling us what to think… I don't know. He used to lecture us all the time, about morality, how there is none without religion. About homosexuals and pornographers and alcoholics. Even in the face of his own immorality. He was so judgmental. I didn't get it. Still don't. We read the same words, but they meant something different to him."

"Maybe he was just a hateful man."

"Maybe. Anyway, I grappled with it, argued with him, with everyone… about everything, for a long time. I finally, just… didn't really care anymore. Then… I spent four long years cursing every God. Now, I believe in dirt. I came from it, and one day, I will return to it. Nothing changes that. Not money, not faith."

His eyes harden with this last statement. Four long years. Cursing every God. I know how despair feels, in my own way, and I feel his, acutely now. More and more I get the impression of a thoughtful boy, a music lover, introspective, crushed at every turn. Looking for meaning, looking for nurturing, getting the opposite. Getting lost. Giving up.

"Your turn. How many men have you slept with?"

"That was quite the change of subject."

"I answered your personal question. Now you can answer mine."

I think my guts just turned into a swarm of bees. Kamikaze bees trying to depart this body by force. "Two."

His brows jump in disbelief. Then his eyes narrow. "Are you divorced?"

"No. I've never been married." The quiet tone of my voice says more than my words. In my own ears, it sounds pathetic. I need to change the subject again.

He really looks so perplexed in this moment. It would almost be funny, if it wasn't sad. I can almost see the thoughts churning in his brain; considering if I am a psycho, if I am diseased. Asking himself why he is pursuing me, if no one else wants me.

I open my mouth to speak, to say anything that would steer the conversation in a different direction, but I'm too late.

"What's wrong with you?"

I don't think he means to insult me, he honestly looks confused.

"I'm discriminating," I say haughtily.

"That's bullshit. If you were, you wouldn't be sitting here. And don't give me some wall-flower crap. You stand apart, Bella. And I want to know."

Here we go.

The room is pulsing inside my ears. I thought I knew how these words would come out of my mouth. I thought I had this speech down. I thought I understood this moment.

But I don't.

All this show, all this dress and this make-up and this hair. It doesn't change anything. Aside from getting the actual words OUT, my biggest worry now is how we get through this meal. And why I didn't drive myself. And why the hell I am even sitting here.

I am so stupid.

I'm looking at my lap. I'm not going to get emotional. I am going to do this. Somehow though, every opening statement for this story sounds wrong. Sometimes the hardest thing you can do is tell your saddest, most pathetic tale, in a way that demands no pity. Sometimes, it's a matter of preempting the reaction you don't want, and that ruins the telling. I don't want drama. I don't want sympathy. I don't want the discomfort of his reaction. Honestly, I really just don't even want to have this conversation.

I meet his inquiring eyes. "I'm not… whole. I…"

"Salad." The perky voice of our server interrupts me and I lean back so that she can place my plate in front of me. And one in front of Edward. "Cracked pepper?"

I nod absently. Edward and I just stare at each other as Jenny grinds away between us. His green eyes are a complete puzzle. He sips his scotch. I wish I had one.

I decide to take a different approach. Something a little more philosophical. "My dad has this expression that he likes to use. 'Put your paddle in the water.' He likes to fish. A lot. Anyway. He believes that the river will take you to where your fish wait. You just… put your paddle in the water, so to speak, and you end up where you're supposed to be."

"Your paddle doesn't lead you to fish then?"

"My paddle is… broken."

"I see."

I'm about to go on when he speaks. "I think my paddle is broken, too." I watch his face. It's thoughtful. "Your dad is a cop?"

"Yeah. He's a Captain for King's County. How did you know?"

"I think Rose told me."

"Really? She wouldn't tell me a thing about you."

"You asked Rose about me?" I feel a little sheepish. Like I've been caught prying into his business.

"Maybe. I mean, she was at Carlisle's wedding, so I figured she must know you."

"Yeah, she knows me all right."

"Did you guys… date?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You didn't seem too happy about her dancing with Emmett. I just assumed there was some animosity there."

"Yes. There is animosity there, but no. If my sister wants to fuck my brother, that's their weird business."

"Your sister? Wait, you and Rosalie are related?"

"Much to the surprise of all of us, yes."

"So. Your mother… is also…"

"Rosalie's mother. Correct."

Rosalie's strong husky voice floats through my memory. _I know him. _Understatement of the year.

I study Edward's face. He looks at me like he knows that I'm looking for the similarities between them. Both tall, solidly built, thick hair, although Rosalie's is blonde. She has green eyes, too. Intense and secretive. And their teeth are similar, gentle lips. And the next thing I'm wondering is how it is that that isn't really weird for Emmett.

"How did that happen?"

He picks up his fork and pokes at his Caesar salad. He takes the philosophical route, too. "Do you ever notice how artists often draw themselves into their work? In some way? I'm not talking about a self-portrait, I'm talking about how all the subjects will ultimately resemble their maker, to some degree. I don't know… that was me and Rose. I was… away for a long time. When I came back to Seattle I went to work with Em. I just needed, I don't know, a job, really."

He pauses as our server shows up and sets down an aerated carafe of a deep red wine at our table with two glasses. She makes to serve us, and Edward gives her a gesture of _I've got this. _Her lashes bat unmistakably at Edward before she leaves.

"You NEEDED the job?" I ask, as he pours me a generous glass of wine.

"I needed... occupation. And yeah, I needed income."

"Rosalie did tell me that you guys have to meet an income threshold to inherit."

"Alice and Emmett do."

"But you don't?"

"I got mine already. When Carlisle paid me to stay away from Miss Hale."

I choke on some lettuce and take a sip of water to clear it. "What?"

"I met Rosalie through a car accident. Her insured ran a stop sign. She made an impression on me. I didn't know she was my sister. Nobody knew. Nobody except Carlisle and Liz, our mother. No one wanted to inform us either. Carlisle, as per usual, thought the answer was in his wallet."

I give him a wary look. He looks back at me. His eyes are cool and detached, like his voice when he asks, "Are you an only child, Bella?"

I nod.

"Would it shock you, if you were to learn, at this stage of our relationship, that we are in fact, siblings?"

I try to imagine what it would be like to learn NOW that Edward Cullen is my brother. It would kind of suck, big time. I nod again, understanding his point.

He nods too. "You _would_ be shocked. You would scour every touch, every interaction, every similarity. You would look at me and see yourself. It was, unreal. Rose doesn't like looking at me anymore. Honestly, I don't know what I feel when I look at her. I was really angry, for a long time."

I wonder how much of each other they touched, before they learned of their shared parentage. But I don't ask that. Instead I ask, "Aren't you still?"

He looks contemplative. "I don't know, anymore."

"I don't know if I can understand, but I can imagine, how… I don't know. Duped is the word that comes to mind. Bait and switch. I like Rose. My dad always calls her 'good people.'"

"I really liked her. I really admired her. In retrospect, something was a little off between us. I mean, I think, when we found out the full truth, it sort of, made sense in a way."

"How did… you end up with Carlisle… and not with your mom?"

He looks more than ready to change the conversation, and I understand that too. "I was never… a child to Liz. I was a pawn. A play for money or… I don't know. But Carlisle doesn't play those kinds of games. I guess, by the time Liz met Trevor Hale, she had grown up a bit. I don't really know."

"Have you met her, your mother?"

"Yes."

He doesn't elaborate. I take that as a sign that he doesn't care to.

"I read once, I don't remember where, maybe in an article about the Red Queen's Hypothesis, that birth control pills can cause women to choose incorrect mates, from a genetic perspective. I guess, in a study or something, where women were given the sweat soaked t-shirts fresh from a variety of males, those on birth control preferred the t-shirts of men who were closely related to them or who were too alike in their DNA. While women free from the influence of hormones picked the t-shirts of the stronger genetic match. I mean. That could be an incredibly tasteless thing to say. I don't know, it's all lower brain function, and I don't know anything about what Rose takes or… anything." I'm blabbering now. I don't know why I even brought this up.

Edward looks interested, though. "Is that so?"

I hide behind my wine glass.

"What do you take?"

"Nothing. Actually."

"And how do I smell, to you? Or should I soak my clothes in sweat and then ask?"

My brain just clouded over. "You… you smell good. Really, really good, actually."

"Well. Good. Maybe we aren't related then. That's good news."

"And it's not like we plan to procreate or anything. I mean." I shake my head. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of whatever happened between you and Rose. It sounds like it was, well, for lack of a better word, shitty."

He nods. "Well, just so you know, because I'm sure you're wondering. I didn't fuck her. Thank God."

"Wow. You are so cavalier about sex. Is it always 'fucking'?"

His brows arch.

"It just seems like… a wall you put up between yourself and your partner. Like 'fucking' is what animals do. What prostitutes do. It sounds so… emotionless."

"The wall of 'fucking,' huh? Do you prefer that I call it something else? Because I feel like that would misrepresent my attitude about it. I see it as fucking. I don't 'make-sweet-love' or cuddle… or do any of that shit."

"I appreciate your honesty. I guess it just seems sort of… empty."

"Because you're a woman. You're emotionally driven."

"And you aren't? You are certainly intense. I don't think that stems from lack of emotion."

His attention, which was focused on me, shifts. I think he IS emotional. I think he tries not to be. I think he knows he tries not to be. I think he is done with this line of conversation.

"Okay your turn. Is one of the men you slept with Jasper?"

Spit-take.

I laugh. He doesn't.

I clear my throat and push my nearly empty salad plate away.

"Why does it matter if it was Jasper?"

He considers. "I guess it doesn't. You two just seem really close."

"We are. But there is no interest there."

"On either side?"

"You've never… just been friends with a woman?"

"Not a woman who looks like you."

I don't really know what to say to that. So it's a good thing Jenny shows up to clear our salad plates and run a crumb catcher over the table cloth. I sip my wine as she makes eyes at Edward. He seems like he notices it, but it doesn't faze him.

"Have you ever… been in love?" Stupid question, I silently berate myself.

"I don't think so. Puppy love, maybe. Why?"

"I think you'd know. Right? I love Jasper. I love Leah and Sam. But that is different from what I imagine BEING in love feels like. Being IN LOVE is passion and something deeper."

"You imagine? You've never been in love either then."

"Does Jimmy Page count?"

"Not really."

"Okay, then no."

He laughs. "Okay, easy question. Favorite Zeppelin tune?"

"That's not easy. It depends on my mood, really. I guess my all time favorite would be Kashmir. Especially live. As incredible as it is in a recording, it stops my heart live."

"You… can't have seen Zeppelin live."

I wave my hand. "Oh… no. I haven't. Covers."

Jenny is back with our entrees. She carefully sets down our plates, and asks us if we need anything. Well, she asks Edward. I'm starting to get kind of annoyed with her actually. Edward has to point out to her that my water glass is empty. Then HE asks me if I would like grated parmesan. Because, I, apparently, in all my bright skinned glory, am invisible. I wonder if she ignores every woman who sits opposite him. I shake my head. After she leaves I ask.

"Is Jenny always your waitress?"

"No, why?"

"She seems sort of, dazzled by you. I don't think she even realizes you're not here eating two meals on your own."

"Mmmm."

"You didn't notice? She stares at you with an open mouth, for Pete's sake. Doesn't that, I don't know… get old? Do I behave like that around you?"

"Are you asking me if you ogle me? No, Bella. Although. Sometimes your eyes, suggest things… I've only ever read about in Forum. But now – I just chalk that up more to your own sexual drought, then my desirability."

Now my mouth is gaping. "I can't believe… you just said that. How do you know I'm not currently 'fucking' someone? Guy Number Two, we'll call him."

"Give me a sweat soaked t-shirt. I bet I could smell it on you."

"You are a fucking primate. You know that?" My voice is serious, but I know my eyes are laughing.

He laughs. He chews. He watches me. He smiles around his fork. How is he so fucking adorable to me, despite the shit he thinks and says? Maybe it _is_ the drought. I'm dehydrated in my sex brain. I pick up my own fork.

"How long… HAS it been? If you don't mind my asking." He doesn't talk with his mouth full. I like that.

"As if my minding would stop you."

"Fair. Tell me though, Bella. I'd like to know."

I shake my head and use the spoon on the side of my plate to wind my pasta around my fork. I go for a small bite. I wish I had ordered something that could be cut into pieces instead of this. There is no dainty way to eat this. I lunge in.

I look up at him. He is smiling lopsidedly. "Watching you eat… is… very erotic. Like watching everything you do."

I am never going to get through this meal. I slurp the strand in and cover my mouth with my napkin.

"All bent over your plate like that. Hot."

I roll my eyes at him.

We munch quietly for a few minutes, him, sawing into his lamb, me swirling spaghetti and scooping it in sauce. We both drink wine, our eyes dart from table to each other. I like watching him eat. But I knew that already. It's a slow, considered, thorough affair. He looks like he enjoys his food, and he doesn't rush. And he doesn't tuck a napkin into his collar. And he doesn't need to, because his bites are neat.

And when he smiles at me, it's with his whole face. His eyes crinkle.

I feel my eyes crinkle back.

He hands me a slice of bread when he gets one for himself. He tops off my glass. He doesn't look at anything but me and his food.

We talk comfortably, about music and other topical things. Tucked away inside, I know I've failed in my mission, which was to tell him tonight. I know now that I won't. Not tonight. Not yet. Something, call it instinct, call it intuition, is telling me that tonight is not the right time. I'd like the rest of our evening to be light… and not about his service, his family, or my baggage. We skirted all these things, but I don't think we are ready to really address them.

And yeah, maybe this is me being a coward. I don't care. I get the feeling he is having a good time. I am, too.

Our server stops by and removes our plates, looking at me like she's never seen me before when I request a doggie bag.

Yeah. Hi. Remember me? And then she returns with my little cardboard to-go box and places the bill directly in front of Edward before walking away. He thanks her and I grab for it.

"I've got this," he says casually, fishing his hand inside his jacket for his wallet.

But I didn't snatch the bill so I could pay.

In big bubbly script, on a piece of scrap paper tucked in the sleeve, is Jenny's name and phone number with a solicitation to let her know how her service was.

Seriously?

I hold it open and show him. "I think you may get lucky tonight after all."

"That isn't luck. That's a crooked hand where I always win."

"Aren't you smug?"

"When I win with you, Bella, that will be luck," he says, but he pulls the billfold out of my hands and sticks a shiny Amex in the slot. He pulls out the scrap paper with Jenny's number on it and looks at it. "Should I keep it?"

"I have no idea why you are asking ME. Do you want to call her?"

"I _want_ to CALL you. But you don't pick up the fucking phone."

"Because I think call-waiting is rude."

"Oooooh burn." His shakes his head, his smile is heart-melting.

Jenny's back, her voice sweet and hopeful. "All set?" She holds her hand out for the billfold and I can tell the moment she sees the note with her number on it lying out on the table in the open. I almost feel bad for her. Then I feel a little angry.

I pick it up and hand it back to her. For the first time all night she really looks at me. Something in her face deepens my anger. What happened to the sisterhood of women? My tone is a little nasty when I say, "What? Do you think I'm his business partner? You think I'm dressed like this for some OTHER man? Take your number back."

"You aren't the only woman he comes in here with," her voice is a little shaky.

"Wow. You are… so indiscreet," I chastise.

She blanches a little.

"Furthermore, you aren't the only woman who already knows that. This isn't your night. Please play again."

She glares at me. I glare back. I'm not a big girl, but I can be very intimidating. Despite my blush. Maybe it's the tattoos, or having a cop for a dad, living alone in a big city. Maybe it's just the bravery lent to me by the half bottle of Nebiolo I just consumed. I'm just about to push back my chair and stand when she breaks and walks away to ring us up. I turn to him.

"There's that angry blush." His tone is amused.

"I can't believe you encourage that."

"I didn't."

"Pshaw. She obviously thought that would work. She graded me, graded you, and found herself to be more in your league."

"I can't help the way I look."

"You can help the way you act. You frequent this restaurant with several different women. Let me ask you… have you ever been hit on by anyone else who works here?"

"Maybe."

"And how did that pan out?"

He smiles at me. It's pretty lecherous.

I shake my head. "You are an easy mark. There is no luck involved because you are a man-whore."

He gets a false wounded look. "My pride, Bella."

I scoff. "Yeah, you should be worried about it."

"But I'm not. I don't really care what people think about me. The only thing bothering me, if I am honest, is that it bothered you."

"How gentlemanly of you. You're a little tardy with your concern."

"I've never felt it before. It's a compliment to you."

"I don't feel complimented. I feel like, when I walk around with you, people think I'm a flavor of the month. And not a very appetizing one."

"Whatever. To me, you are delicious. My opinion is the only one that matters here."

"Wrong. Mine is what matters. I live and breathe in this body and will, long after you are done with it. I don't like being made to feel inferior at every turn when standing next to you."

"Bella, you are far better than anyone in this room. Do you understand me? What that waitress did… is something that is not my fault. Women barter themselves like it's all they have to offer me… and sometimes… they try to spend what they don't have. I can't change that. Not tonight, not until they lose interest in me. Or I them."

"As if that would ever happen."

He rolls his eyes at me as a busboy brings him his credit card and slip. I guess Jenny decided she was done with us. Good. I was done with her.

Edward scribbles a tip and his signature and flips the book closed. He's very generous, I notice. And left handed.

"I didn't realize you were left handed."

"Despite the Sisters repeatedly whacking my hand with a ruler, yes, I am."

"I didn't know they still tried to break kids of that."

"I don't think they do, anymore. But they did when I was in school." He stands and holds his hand out. "Ready?"

"Where now?" I take his warm hand and stand. He grabs my to-go box from the table.

"I thought, maybe, Paragon. They have live music on Fridays."

"Okay. I've never been there either."

He leads me to the front where we collect my coat. As I slide into it, I see Jenny watching us from her position by another one of her tables. It's silly, and immature, but I smile and wave, before Edward takes my arm and leads me from the restaurant.

**(((High Fidelity)))**

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><p><strong>SURPRISE! My AN is at the bottom this time. See how I mix things up? Anyway. A couple of quick things:**

**I know a lot of you are shaking your heads, thinking: She needs to tell him. ****Let me be clear - I AGREE WITH YOU. She should've told him. But she didn't. It's not time yet. Sit tight. :D**

**Also - The teaser I posted at ireenh. blogspot. com ended up falling into Ch.12, which will be up this weekend. EPOV. **

**I would like to send a shout out to TheManiacalMuse for lending me her perspective on this update. THANK YOU!**

**As usual, thanks to my beautiful Beta: Dragonfly336. Have I told you lately... that I love you?**

**And finally... thanks to ALL of you! You guys rock. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to this author.**

**No copyright infringement is intended.**

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><p><strong>AN: **It's all on my blog. Music and references, including the three seashells: **ireenh. blogspot. com**

I am on twitter if you need to vent. I can take it. (at)ajapersuasia.

Do I even need to say it? Dragonfly336. Gush. Uber-Gush.

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><p><strong>.<strong>

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><p>Feels like you're making a mess.<br>You're hell on wheels in a black dress.  
>You drove me to the fire...<br>And left me there to burn.  
>~Disease by Matchbox 20<p>

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><p>**EPOV**<p>

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><p>Bella Fucking Swan.<p>

Pasta Fucking Puttanesca.

How the fuck does she get more enticing, more beautiful, more captivating, every fucking time I see her? Her poise. Her mouth. Her wit. Her eyes. She sees things… I don't. She thinks things that surprise me.

She makes me laugh.

She lightens my load. Sometimes even just for a minute. I want her.

I want her.

I don't know all the things I want from her. But I do know that I want to watch her eyes while she comes. I want to watch her mouth leading up to that moment.

I want to taste her skin, her decorations, everything that made it possible. All of her.

I don't exactly know all the things I feel when I watch the very beginning of her smile. It's the anticipation of all of it. The impending blossom of her whole face into the happiness she carries with her. It's having that lightness, that freedom, right there, for me. For me to have.

Ownership. Such a silly thing. No one owns anything. I am transitory. I seek only to make this existence more comfortable. Money can do that. It does that. The female form does that. Alcohol does that. Bella does that. Though, it's different with her somehow. I don't want her as I want other things, as I want other women. Possession takes on a whole new meaning when I look at her face.

I don't know exactly how I feel about that.

I don't understand why she is alone.

She said that she is broken, but I don't see it. I know what broken looks like. I know what it feels like. It doesn't feel like the unbelievable grace that is Isabella Fucking Swan. The honesty.

She is walking in front of me, towards the curb, just out of my grasp. Her slender neck disappears as she tilts her face up to the stars. I'm about to reach for her when she turns abruptly, walking backwards, checking back over her shoulder as she goes.

"Your favorite song on _Revelator_. I know it."

"Do you. And…?"

"Midnight in Harlem."

She knows it. How did she know it? "And is that also your favorite? Are you just guessing the song you like best?"

"No. My favorite… is a different track."

"Which?"

"Guess."

"I can't guess. I don't know you well enough, yet."

There is the beginning bloom of her secret-delight smile. The smile for a shared joke. The smile I like to think of as mine.

"Ah… and that is why we won't be sleeping together tonight. Or… as you say in Cullenese, why we won't be FUCKING."

That word, that mouth, that tone. Those eyes, those positively wicked eyes. Eyes that twinkle her soul at me, like so much starlit chocolate. The milky way. She is loose, she is light, she is floating backwards. She's happy. She's tipsy. I like her this way. A lot.

I pounce forward and pull her into me. She squeaks. Then she tilts her head back and laughs. I kiss her hot throat.

"Until You Remember." I guess, my nose against her skin.

"No."

"Damn."

"Can I have like… twelve more guesses?"

She laughs again. It vibrates from her to me. "You get two more. That's it."

I kiss her mouth. "You taste good. Like wine."

"You taste like anise."

"Like what?"

"Like licorice. Like Sambuca." She breathes the words, putting one hand on my cheek. Her touch, as usual, is soothing. The way she presses her palm against my face, like she knows it holds me together. Like she knows exactly all the parts of me where I feel it. The way she looks into my eyes, like she sees into them.

"Say that again."

"Sambuca?"

I growl and kiss her more. Not enough. Never enough.

The valet cruises up in my car and hops out, handing me the keys with a look that says, "Fuck yeah."

I return it. I feel like I have something worth celebrating. Something lithe, spicy and completely perfect.

Something whose mind I can hopefully change about how this night ends.

I think this is what Christmas is supposed to feel like. The glowing tree, the promise of mystery gifts from Santa. The cookies, the candy, the indulgence. The magic. The music.

Ripping brightly colored paper to reveal the treasures underneath.

The relief from months of frustrated anticipation and speculation.

She slides into the car and I circle it. I get in and she's facing me. That leg, the one with the fucking slit, is crooked and propped over my console again.

I am not going to think about what a flimsy barrier separates me, separates my hand, from her pleasure. I am not going to think about her panties clinging tightly, hotly, to something I can't touch.

I am a little light headed. Again.

My inseam is a little snug. Again.

"Are you okay to drive?" I realize my eyes have been closed a little too long. Again.

"Yeah. Fine." She is looking at me with alert curiosity. "You may want to stop distracting me though. Your leg is in my dance space."

She straightens, her cheeks pinking in a happy blush. "Sorry. Is this better?"

"Marginally."

"At least I didn't wear thigh-highs."

I groan. "Bella. Hush. You're playing very dirty right now."

"Fight fire with fire."

"I pray I burn to death." She laughs and I pull out into traffic, my speed a tad more aggressive than altogether necessary.

...

**((HiFi))**

**...**

Paragon is loud. Jazzy music is seeping out the double doors and Bella is shimmying before we even get inside. I check our coats and follow her into the bustling club. A dark haired, dark skinned, dark voiced femme fatale is crooning "Walk Right In" on the small stage. An army of musicians back her up.

_Well I met this guy, he loves to hucklebuck, well, he's a real fine dancer, loves to hucklebuck. Man we get on the floor, all he wants to do is… Walk right in, walk right out…_

Bella's face, when she turns to me, is lit with pure joy. An intoxicating, entrancing, infectious childlike excitement that comes from someplace I've never ever understood. Her hand is warm when it finds mine and before I can say, "let's get a drink," we're on the dance floor.

"I LOVE this song!" she exclaims. Like I couldn't already tell.

And she's answering back with the rest of the crowd, singing along. She's got a groovy little hip sway, her fingers holding fast to mine. The song fades into a jump-swing version of "Girls On Film" by Duran Duran and the dance floor crowds as the familiarity of the tune draws out more dancers. It's a nice arrangement. I say so. Bella nods, hoisting up the skirt of her dress and attempting a spastic looking Charleston. And then, for some reason that is way beyond me, I'm doing it with her. There is delighted surprise in her eyes. It's a look I've never seen on her before. I want to see it again.

The song dissolves with our laughter, and a soft horn rings out, filling the room steadily. Then a drum beat. Then the fatale is letting everyone know that they're bringing it down a notch. It's a slow dance.

_The maddest kind of love, is a love you know is wrong. It burns a hole right through your soul…_

I pull her in close to me. Her face is flushed, stray strands of her hair coming loose from her coronet. She looks up into my face and smiles before turning her cheek and tucking her head under my chin, wrapping her arms around my torso. Hugging and touching seem so natural to her. Like she was caressed or held often as a child, and it's her best and most reliable form of communication. It's not sexual. It's simpatico.

Does she gift everyone with her touch, the way she does me?

There is no expectation in the way she touches me. It's all give, no take. For some reason I think back to my childhood, and one of my favorite books, _The Giving Tree_. I ponder it as she sways gently with me. Do I just want to take from her and not give? Will I leave her with nothing after I take what I want? Can I have what I want without damage? Is it even possible for me to give and take at the same time?

Does she take anything from me? I feel like she does… I don't know.

I've never really considered it before. As a child I always hated the boy, the man, for leaving the tree a stump. For using up everything the Giving Tree had to give, and in the end, she's still there, providing a seat for a tired old man.

_You're like a vampire, you suck the life out of people and leave the corpses behind._

I always wanted the end of that book to be different. With the tree still tall, throwing shade, her generous limbs offering fruit, season after season.

I press my nose against Bella's hair. It smells like her. Hot, humid Bella.

The night races past. A heady mixture of Bella, her smile, her eyes, her arms. Long decorated arms whose hands find me often. I drink alcohol, she drinks water. I find the float and fly I was looking for, while she finds the rhythm in every song, as it surges up through the floor, our seats, the soles of my shoes.

When the band announces last call, Bella reaches for me. "We should go. Hit the road before the drunks do." Then she looks into my face, her expression serious, and holds up her hand, showing me her palm. "Give me your keys."

I don't argue. I slip the cool metal into her hands and get rewarded with her mouth. "Thank you."

I shrug. It feels good. Like tightening the spine and letting go. Like squeezing a slinky before pushing it off the stairs.

I follow her out into the cool night. The damp Sound air hits my hot skin in every exposed place. I suck in untainted atmosphere, free of sweat and smoke and music.

She leads me. She pulls me. She beckons me. All without so much as touching me, until we are approaching the glinting silver and chrome of the Jag.

She turns to me, walking backwards. There's that smile again.

The spring inside me uncoils, and before I've considered it, I'm lifting her, perching her on the trunk of the vehicle. Her legs part, splaying to let me close, one on each side of my waist, as I fill my mouth with hers. Her arms circle my neck, pale hands limp and relaxed, as mine become claws, bringing her closer to me, holding her tight to me. I can feel her hot pulse against the fly of my pants, pounding through thin material.

Or maybe that is my own heart pounding.

My brain is fuzzy, distant, registering this body as a triage of parts. Parts that are touching Bella, parts that aren't. Parts that are alive and parts that don't exist. What exists are my hands and her hips and her heat, her lips and her tongue and her teeth. I am aware of every part of me in contact with her. My mouth, my hands, my cock under these clothes. My chest. Hers. And then my voice.

"Don't take me home."

I open my eyes to see hers, big and dark and glinting the moon back at me. "What?"

My voice, in my head, is pleading. In between us, it's depleted and scarce. "I don't want to go to my condo."

Her eyes dart over my face, performing a careful examination. I don't know what she finds there, but her hand is against my cheek, her thumb tracing the hollow under my eye. I hear the hand behind my head close around my keys and I'm hoisting her down from the Jag. She opens the passenger door for me. Then she closes it.

I am moving inside this vehicle before it even starts. Spinning, wobbling. I recline the seat slightly as Bella turns the engine over and glides backwards, easily, righting the Jag and pointing it towards the exit. Her exposed knee is propped against my driver's side door, her arms stretched out, her hands operating the car like she owns it. She guides us out of the parking lot, and then smoothly finds overdrive on the highway.

"I see why you like this car."

"Mmmmhmmm."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm good."

She looks over at me, stretched back in the seat, my eyes on her. My brain using her as home-base, a safe place where I can't be tagged. A still solid refuge against which I can lean.

I've never been a passenger in this car before. I've never watched a woman drive it. I like watching the muscle in her leg go taut as she depresses the clutch. I feel the pulse of changing gears in my ribcage, in my legs, in my ears.

"You look good, driving my car."

She smiles. "I haven't driven stick in a while." She shakes her head. Before I can say anything she laughs. "I can't believe I said that."

"Tsssokay. I don't have anything witty at the moment."

"Phew. I thought I walked right into one there."

I realize for the umpteenth time this evening that I'm smiling. That I feel infected by her levity. "How is everything so easy for you, Bella?"

Her smile is gone. "Everything isn't easy for me."

"Fooled me. You are one beautiful liar then. The most beautiful fake I've ever seen."

"You're drunk."

"You're right."

The quiet thuds inside my skull as I look at her. The birds, the flowers, the fruit, the lyrics, the poetry that is her. The darkness, the light.

"Don't you worry… about what you will look like… when you're eighty? With your skin all crêpe-y and all your paintings smudged by age?" I reach out and glide my fingers over her forearm.

Her answer is quiet. "No. I don't worry about that."

"Your skin will look funny. When you're old." I hear myself saying stupid things, but I don't know how to stop myself. Sober or drunk, it's all the same. I need a verbal chastity belt. My mind starts constructing THAT monstrosity.

"Edward… have you ever seen a hot eighty year old, anyway?"

"How old is Sophia Loren? I'd still break one off for her."

"I don't think she's THAT old."

"However old she is. Don't really care."

"Man-whore."

I nod. It feels random. I drape my arm over my face.

"Besides, I don't care what I look like when I'm old. Eighty would be such a gift. Eighty would be almost a century of time on this planet. Imagine all the things I will have seen in eighty years."

"Maybe it will just end up being the three seashells. I could skip that."

She laughs. "No, I want that. I've often wondered how they work."

"She doesn't know how to use the three seashells?" I mimic Demolition Man with my arm folded over my eyes.

"Shut up. You don't know how they work either."

"Rinse, blow, powder. That's what I think."

"Powder? Not for men? Do you powder your ass?"

I make some sort of _not on your life_ noise.

"I'm glad. Manscaping has a hard limit. Anyway. I don't mind the aging. It's part of living. The alternative to living is dying."

"Are you afraid to die?"

She is quiet for several moments. I don't think she is going to answer me when she finally says, "Sometimes."

I move my arm so I can see her profile. "Me too. Sometimes."

"And other times?"

"Other times, I'm okay with it."

She pulls the car into an all night grocery store. "What are we doing here?"

"Sit tight," is all she says before striding into the store. She can't have been gone more than five minutes when a twinge of worry spikes through my mental fog. I should have gone in with her. She is so delicate, and that dress. And it's the middle of the night. I'm just unbuckling my seatbelt to go in after her when I see her reappear at the entrance. A few seconds later she is climbing back in, setting a bakery pie in my lap.

She looks over at me as I click my seatbelt back shut. "You okay?"

"Stop asking me that. I'm fine." I think. I think I'm fine. Maybe not.

"Alright, cranky."

"Just drive, lovely."

She does. Turning the jag this way and that, weaving us towards her house.

"'Simple Things,' track number five." I guess, randomly.

"Are you just guessing your favorite songs on the album?"

She is so astute sometimes.

"How did you know 'Midnight In Harlem' was my favorite?"

She looks like she is considering her answer carefully before she says, "Well… I think it's probably fair to say that it's the best song on the album. It's very… haunting."

"But not your favorite?"

"No. I think maybe it would be… except another song sort of grabbed me. You know?"

It's quiet again as I contemplate _Revelator_ in a muddled haze. I feel like I should know this. I feel like… she isn't telling me because it's obvious somehow. I am trying to remember all the songs and their names. "Ball and Chain," "Bound for Glory…" No. Not those.

She reaches out and turns up the volume on the radio. Bing Crosby is singing about a white Christmas. I reach out and turn it down.

"No Bing?"

"I'm not ready for Christmas carols yet."

"How do you spend Christmas? Away from your family, like Thanksgiving?"

"Mostly. You?

"You spend Christmas alone?"

"I don't usually spend it alone. And, sometimes, I go to dinner. Depends on my state of mind. Do you have dinner with your dad?"

She nods. "And his fiancée, Sue. And Leah and Seth, and sometimes Sam and her family, depending. And usually Jasper. Typically, we have a handful of people from the Co-op and the station that don't have family to spend the day with. It's usually a crowded, noisy, incredibly fun day. We drink eggnog and eat lasagna. Sue makes a bolognaise lasagna to die for. I make a veggie one. Sam usually brings a Stouffer's frozen lasagna. We have chess tournaments and Acquire tournaments, and play dirty Scrabble. You're welcome to come. If you like."

"Acquire?"

"It's a board game from the '60's. Best game ever."

She pulls into her driveway and we get out. I follow her up the steps and into the dark fragrant house. It smells homey, like fresh laundry and cinnamon tea, and Bella. She kicks her shoes off, leaving them in an untidy pile by the front door, flipping on lights as she makes her way into the kitchen. Jake comes ambling out of her bedroom and sits in front of me, his luxuriant tail wagging back and forth across the wood floor.

I kneel, kind of shakily, and he rewards me with a kiss on my face. "Good boy." I remember the last time I met Jake, the last time I stood right here. I remember thinking that I needed to fuck Bella Swan and forget her.

I tell it to myself again.

I pat Jake between the ears as I watch Bella set the pie on the dining room table with two forks. I hear her rummaging in the kitchen. I stand and round the corner to see her switching on her coffee pot. She hands me a big glass of water. I take it. I drink it.

She fills it back up for me and sets it at the table next to the pie. Then she disappears into the hall cabinet, coming out with a blue box about the size of an encyclopedia. The box is faded and worn around the edges. It's got a rubber band wrapped around it to hold it firmly closed. On the top it says _Acquire_.

"Are we playing a game?"

"Yes. I'm going to take advantage of you in your drunken condition."

"Great."

She turns on her iHome and pushes her iPod into the slot. I don't really want to play a game. I don't really want to sit in that chair and have her explain rules and stuff to me. There is no way I can keep up. Really, I want to distract myself with all the nuances of her body and her mouth. I want to pull the band from her hair and see it tumble down. I want to hear her say my name in a voice full of _Please_. I want to see her look at me with eyes full of _Thank You_.

She is pulling two mugs out of the cabinet when I brush aside the loose hair that curls gently down from the base of her neck. I touch my lips to a small crest of bone, her spine, just under the skin. She shivers. I can imagine her nipples pearling up under her dress. Under my hands, under my mouth. Tender, light pink nipples that taste like Bella. I kiss her again.

And again. Tracing down from her neck to her back. She tucks her chin, bringing her bones closer to the surface. Her exquisitely fine bones. Her nearly iridescent skin. Her scent, hot molten strawberry sauce served over crushed jasmine blossoms.

She looks back at me, over her shoulder, and I kiss the corner of her mouth. And then she turns to me and I have all of it. Slowly, slowly, her mouth opening, letting me in. All the way in.

My fingers find hers and they tangle next to us, just gently, simply, by our sides. I open my eyes in an attempt to regain control of this tottering floor I stand on. Trying to calm the pitch and roll of my muscles inside my skin, exaggerated by the relocation of my blood away from my brain. Her face, her simmering cheeks and faintly fluttering lashes do nothing to assuage the buck and shift of my bones, this room. This turbulent life.

Her eyes languidly open. Hungry, insatiable eyes eliminating the need for words.

I pull my hand from hers and glide it up her arm, running it across all her stories, all the symbols of things she doesn't want to tell me, yet. Her skin is so soft, her collarbone a smooth and fragile ridge under my fingers. I let my thumb play in the hollow there, before sliding my hand down to cup her breast through the dress, exalting in the feel of the slight swell above the fabric. I can feel the pucker of her nipple through the material, and she gasps.

That gasp. I am trying to distract myself from all the things I could do to her right now to get her to gasp again. And again.

And again.

My inebriated confused mind creates imagery that only makes sense in the most sensual of contexts. Her mouth, her belly, her as eroticism itself, her as food, as a ripe sweet-tart grapefruit, partially peeled with exposed pink flesh. Juice running around my lips, down my chin.

I could devour her. I could spend hours, just devouring her.

Her eyes are downcast as she pushes my hand away.

"Bella. Let me. Please." I can't get enough air, and I can't even begin to comprehend all the things I want her to let me do. I don't think she has any idea either, all the things she is denying with the vehement little shake of her head.

I reflexively push into her a little. "End my torment. Please."

I kiss her. It isn't soft. It isn't sweet. It's demanding. But she kisses me back, her grip on my wrist firm, keeping my fingers from finding her again. Keeping me from her. I yank my hand away and grasp her hip, pulling her against me, trying to spread my frustrated pain to her by touch. Trying to douse my internal flame with her mouth, which only feeds it.

I wanted to die this way, I prayed for it.

She breaks away again. My frustration spikes. I drag a hand through my hair as she says in a husky voice, "You are here to sober up."

I think I snarl. It startles her.

Her surprise turns to stubbornness. "Don't make me use Disco-Force."

I pull her back against me just as she starts to sing quietly, in her shaky, off-key voice. "At first I was afraid... I was petrified…"

I sigh and put my hands up, surrendering her. "Okay. I stopped."

"Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side," she sings.

"I call foul."

"But then I spent so many nights just thinking how you did me wrong, and I grew strong..."

I cover my ears dramatically as her voice gets louder. She slides across her floor and jumps on her couch. "And I learned how to get along!"

"Are you seriously doing the Sprinkler right now?"

"And so you're back! From outer space! I just walked in to find you here with that sad look upon your face." Jake whimpers and then lets out a quiet "Arrrrrooooooo".

"Bella, I shit you not, I will get my keys and drive myself home."

She reaches beside her and plucks the keys from the side table, waving them in my face. "I should have changed the stupid locks, I should have made you leave your keys..."

I reach for them, but she flings her hand up and out of my grasp. Her smile, a-fucking-gain, is contagious. It's that secretive shimmer to her eyes. I'm smiling, too. And I must be drunk, because then I'm singing along with her.

There is that delighted surprise, again. Just for me.

"If I had known for just one second you'd be back to bother me… go on now GO! Walk out the door."

She's laughing. "You know the words. I thought you hated disco."

"Come on, Bella. Everyone knows that song. And, I think Jake and I both felt we had to drown you out somehow."

Her face is mock surprise. "You just… crushed my hopes and dreams." She bends down, from her position on high and kisses my forehead. Then she runs her fingers through my hair. "You have beautiful hair. So thick. Do you make it look like this on purpose?"

"My hair is probably the second most tormented part of my body."

"I don't even know what to say to that." She hops down off the couch and I trail behind her towards the kitchen where she pours coffee into two mugs.

"Maybe I wasn't talking about my cock. Don't assume. You know what they say about that."

"Yeah, yeah. Ass out of you and me. Sit down."

"Do I have to?"

She gives me a look that says, _yes I have to._ A look she probably uses with her neighbor's kids. A look that tells me I need to behave. I adjust myself and sit.

She opens the box and pulls out a plastic yellow grid, a tray full of play money, and stacks of cards. She starts laying everything out. Organizing, explaining. All I really hear is her voice. All I see is her mouth, her teeth, her eyes.

She hands out the money and says, "Got it?"

"Bella… this looks boring." I sound petulant. I sound whiny.

She just smiles and places a small black tile on the board. "Your turn."

"What do I do again?"

The next hour passes in a blur of playing tiles, buying stock in hotels, counting money, letting Jake out, eating pie. Bella laughing, making more coffee, licking her fork absentmindedly. Biting her lip as she places tiles on the board. Explaining mergers, making me eat pie. Filling my water glass, letting Jake in, wiggling in her chair when her iPod shuffles to this song or that. Until finally, a little after three a.m. we count all our money and she says, "I win."

I look at the grid, how her hotel chain dominates three quarters of the board. I think about all the moves I made, the strategy I didn't have. I know where I lost. I look up at her, into her smiling eyes.

"Rematch."

"Now?"

"Now."

She sets the board back up. The play is faster this time. I make different moves. I watch how she plays. She is so cunning. It's nearly four in the morning when we count our money. "I win, again."

"Once more. I think I'm almost clear-headed."

We move the game to the floor, setting up on the carpet, and she sprawls out on her stomach, her legs bent, the pink soles of her feet facing me. Her coronet is half undone, with a swath of dark hair falling out on one side. Her eyes are tired, the shadows underneath them prominent. I slip my shoes off and sit cross-legged across from her.

About ten minutes in, her iPod shuffles to Tedeschi Trucks and at the sound of the twangy bluesy intro, Bella's huge brown eyes sweep up to mine. Her cheeks instantly flush.

_Tired of living without, when others have so much…_

This is Bella's favorite song on the CD. "Learn How to Love." My eyebrow goes up, looking for confirmation without words. She gives a small nod. Then she plays a tile and buys some stock. But as long as the song plays, her face flames.

This song grabbed her, she said. Why would that be? Maybe because the lyrics felt personal, or, maybe just because it's a rockin' blues tune. But, she's blushing, like it's personal.

Why do I feel like I'm eight years old all of the sudden. Eight years old and Heidi Shoemaker just got busted trying to pass me a love note during morning prayer. Her cheeks went scarlet too, as she stood at the front of the class and read aloud about how nice she thought I was. How she thought my eyes were pretty.

God, Catholic school was so awful. Poor girl. I had totally forgotten about that moment. Trying to sink into my chair, into my shoes, into invisibility, while everyone turned to look at me.

And now, watching Bella, nearly twenty five years later, here I sit trying to be casual when on the inside I feel, again, like I want to evaporate.

_It's music. Stop reading so much into it. Maybe it isn't about you._

It's about her, I realize. She's never been in love. Her clock is ticking.

She doesn't make it through this match. She falls asleep about halfway through the game, her lightly freckled cheek pressed against the vivid color of her arm, her fingers curled up slightly, her hair draped around her face. Her other arm is tucked across her chest. The curve of her back, her waist, her hip keeps drawing my gaze and dragging it down along that fucking slit in her dress. I finish the game, playing her tiles for her. Evaluating strategy, hers and mine. Counting her stock, counting mine.

I count her money at the end. She still fucking won. But it was close this time.

I get the box and carefully pack up her game, sliding the rubber band around the flimsy careworn container. The light, swimmy headedness has given way to fatigue. Intense marrow-deep fatigue. I turn off her coffee pot, her kitchen light, her iPod.

I go back to her bedroom, making sure her bed is clear. It isn't. There is a jumbo box of condoms lying casually on the bedspread. I laugh quietly to myself.

So close. And yet… so far.

I push them off the side and pull down the coverlet.

I imagine coaxing her sleepily out of her dress and into my embrace, and the fantasy is an odd one. It isn't a _this is how I fuck Bella for the first time_ kind of fantasy, it's a _this is how I get closer to a woman I can never get close enough to_ kind of fantasy. It's… weird. It's like the way she touches me. It's a liberty granted by time and experience. It's intimate. It's older than our association. It's older than I am. It's ancient.

I turn off the light and a glimmering moon and stars nightlight blinks on in one corner. I head back to the living room and stoop to gather her up in my arms. She is light, rolling into me easily, making a confused noise in her sleep. I don't want her to come fully awake… so I shush her. "I'm just taking you to bed." Her arm comes up around my neck and I feel her sigh sleepily against me.

Something in my chest still feels drunk. Heavy alcoholic thump.

When I lay her down, she rolls and curls up into herself. In the dark, I can see the outline of her skin against the cool clean white of her sheets. Her silken hair scattering around her face, against her pillow.

Looking at her there, alone in her bed, alone in this house, alone in this life, I find myself wondering again, why? Maybe she really is the most beautiful faker I've ever seen. Maybe it's more than her paddle that is broken.

She's confident. She's got this ethereal beauty that smacks of divinity. She's smart. She's funny. She's strong. She's humble. She's… kind. There is something here I'm not seeing. Something obvious.

She is so unique. Not afraid of anything. Not of looking awkward or silly. Not afraid to laugh at herself or stand her ground. Not afraid of new things or the quiet. Is she afraid of me? I thought once that she was and now it seems impossible. She said that she was afraid to die – sometimes.

I just don't get her at all.

I don't want to leave, don't want this night to be over. It's like a vacation from real life and now I have to go home.

I bend and tuck a lock of her hair back behind her ear.

Fuck it.

I lay next to her, pulling her bodily into me, wrapping myself around her.

I will only stay for a minute.

I just want to hold her, just for a minute.

I just need to close my eyes, just for a minute, and then I will be good to drive home.

Just… for… a minute. Or two.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

_I will never get to where I'm going. _

_I will never get there._

_Never._

_I run and run, but it's all in slow motion. I'm panicking, my heart like a grenade with the pin pulled. I won't make it. I never make it. And I'm tired, I'm so tired. _

_I'm so…_

_But I have to keep going. I don't know where I am going but I have to get there. _

_If only I didn't have to carry all this weight. Maybe then I could move faster. Maybe then…_

_I'm holding something. Someone. A child?_

_A body._

_And it's already too late. It's ALWAYS too late. _

_I go to my knees, the dry dusty earth does nothing to cushion the impact. It reverberates through my muscles, punishing my bones. My arms relax against my will, it hurts to move them, they've been in this position for so long. Bent around this body, for so long. This sticky, tacky, limp body that used to be a life. Now it's just so much meat. So much meat rolling from me to the dirt. We all become dirt. _

_Everywhere I look, dirt._

_I wish, for the millionth time, that the next bullet finds me. That the next explosion claims me. _

_And it does._

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>My dress has shifted, it's twisted and pinching me. Is that what woke me? This tight capsule of a dress, the bulk of it tangling around me?<p>

No. Something moved and it wasn't me. In my haze, I think it must be Jake, jumping up on the bed. But it's not.

It's Edward. He's in my bed with me, and he's having a nightmare. A quiet nightmare.

I can see him faintly in the pre-dawn glow filling my bedroom. He's facing me, on his side, his hand clutching the pillow with white knuckled ferocity. His whole body is rigid, his whole face is strained. The only movement comes from his chest, which heaves forcefully under the starched gray of his unbuttoned dress shirt.

His heavy lids show the rapid eye movement underneath, and then they still. His face relaxes slightly as a tear seeps out one eye, slides down his nose, curls under his nostril and drops down to the pillow.

Something inside me crumbles. This is a little boy in front of me. A lost little boy, living in the body of a man. Alone, a pretender, not that different from myself. I reach for him. I wrap my arms around him, pulling his face into my neck. I shush him, even though he makes no sound. I push my hand into his hair, brushing it back. "It's ok," I tell him, quietly. "It will be ok."

He exhales against me, a quivery exhale, unsure and jagged. A sob of an exhale. And then he jerks, as he comes awake, pulling back and searching my face like he doesn't recognize me.

His eyes are colorless in the murky morning light. I run a thumb over his cheek and kiss it. "It's ok. It's over. You're awake now."

He blinks, confused.

"It was just a nightmare. It's over now."

His eyes just stare as another tear falls.

"Do you often cry in your sleep?" I ask gently, wiping it away.

His eyes close. He just breathes. Deep, unsteady breaths. I pull him into me again. He lets me. I feel him exhale against my neck as he calms down. I hold on to him.

He holds on to me.

I fall back asleep.

When I wake again, he's gone.

**(((High Fidelity)))**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended.****

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><p><strong>AN: **

**Welcome to Chapter 13. Please make sure your safety harness is fully closed and locked. Please stow all valuables, remember to keep your arms and legs inside the chapter at all times and remain seated until the chapter comes to a complete stop. **

**Please do not ride this chapter if the use of drugs offends or upsets you.**

**Your operators for this chapter were the divine Dragonfly336, and she of unbelievably beautiful mind, BelieveItOrNot. **

**Ready? We have a very great distance to travel in a scant 13k words… (and music, as usual, is on my blog.)**

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

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><p>My wings are dusty with frost and coal.<br>For a little thing like you I'm too heavy a load.  
>You'll struggle and falter, amble around.<br>Just follow some other storm 'cause I'll only weigh you down.

~Good Morning Magpie, Murder by Death

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I have to work today. And every day for what feels like the rest of my life. I shower and pull my hair into a simple ponytail. There is still coffee in the pot from last night, so I pour myself a cup and stick it in the microwave. I step back and watch the mug spin behind the frosted glass.<p>

This spot.

Exactly where I stood last night, while Edward kissed the back of my neck. Where he demonstrated his lust by trapping me bodily against the counter. The spot where every square inch of me purred to life, yearned for him, ached in more places than I can physically touch. Deep inside of me.

I have never felt such need, such urgency.

And fear.

When he palmed my breast with his big hand, my heart stopped.

I should have told him. I almost did.

Fear stopped me.

I'm in trouble. I like him. A lot. Despite myself. Despite him.

I don't want this to be over.

I know why Alice gave me those fucking tags. To give me an excuse for his behavior, to force me to look past it, to help me see something under the surface. That dazzling surface whose cool exterior serves to reflect light, keeping the dark depths from exposure.

But I see the depths.

That genuine smile. Genuine, with a touch of surprise. Like he can't believe he's happy. I love it when he smiles like that. I love that I can make him smile like that.

The way he presses into my touch. The way he shakes his head slightly in unconscious amusement. The way his eyes shine with that sinister gleam. The way they soften when he kisses me.

And our banter. He makes me question myself. He forces me to see myself in a different light. I love that about our time together.

I don't want to lose it. I don't want my days to fill back up with the drudgery of nothing special. Nothing to look forward to.

The microwave beeps, startling me.

I can't believe I still have this confession hanging over me. Now, I feel like it's not just the reaction to my physicality I have to get through. He will doubtless feel… duped. Again. Different woman, different scenario, same duplicity. Bait and switch.

Or, maybe it's not that big of a deal.

Maybe I'm reading too much into this, basing too much on how I feel. I feel like going another forty-eight hours before seeing him is so awfully long. Intolerably long.

I shouldn't assume that he feels the same way.

But… it feels like we crossed a line somewhere, like this is more than sport, now. Maybe not much more, but a little.

It's hard to tell. On the one hand, he's been very clear. He doesn't do complicated. He takes one bite and wastes the rest. He doesn't cuddle.

But, on the other hand, he _did_ cuddle. I think. Why did he lie down with me last night? Why did I wake up with his arm around me?

And the rose, the blue rose with an exotic message. The way he smiles when his guard is down. These small things feel like they are for me. His honesty feels like respect.

Have I been respecting him? He told me that he didn't think I was a game player, but to some degree, I _have_ been playing games. Hiding things. He thinks I'm not. I need to fix that.

That I've tried to tell him a couple of times does nothing to make me feel any better about the situation. I need to just put my big girl panties on and fucking deal with it. If he doesn't want to see me anymore. Well, fine. That's probably for the best.

That's for the best.

But it doesn't feel that way.

Last night, watching him dance awkwardly with me, watching him glower at the game board, hearing him sing gently and quietly along with me, it all makes me think there is a lot more to Edward Cullen than I thought.

I sigh.

It's time to do this.

I unplug my phone from the charger and scroll to his number, looking at my watch as the connection opens in my ear. 12:45. Surely he is up by now.

I wonder what time he left. He must have been quiet. I didn't even hear him go.

I get voicemail. I leave a message.

"Hey. It's Bella. I um… I had a really good time last night. I'm sorry I fell asleep during that last game. I don't mind giving you another opportunity to win, if you want to play again. I'm working all weekend, though, so... maybe after work sometime this week? If you want to come over for dinner, maybe? And, actually… I need to talk to you. It's kind of important. So, can you… call me back? I start at two today, so I won't be available after that. I hope you got home all right. Talk to you later. Bye."

I press my work shirt and tie, de-scuff my work shoes, and make a PB&J.

I run some searches in my TV menu for Christmas shows I don't want to miss_. Scrooged, Scrooge!, Mr. Magoo, The Grinch_. I set my DVR for all of them, except _Scrooge!,_ which I can't find. Dang, I wouldn't mind seeing Albert Finney singing and dancing.

I lock up and head over to Jane's. It's the usual madness with Jane cursing like a sailor and barking orders as leads depart with their loads. I don't need direction, and Jane knows it. I get right to work, pulling all the necessary shit for my party: plates, platters, utensils, fancy shit, chafers, aprons, gloves. I fold down the seats in the back of the Rodeo, line my car with grip, and load it. Food goes in last. Jane hands me directions and advises me to, "Blow their socks off."

I check my phone on the drive over. Nothing. I put it on vibrate and ignore it for the next seven hours as I cook meatballs and stuffed mushrooms, arrange crudité and cheesecakes. I refill wine glasses, coffee carafes. I do dishes, I smile. I kiss ass. All the while, I am thinking about Edward.

When I've collected the last wine glass, wiped the last counter and cabinet, taken out the last bag of garbage and collected payment, I check my phone again. Nothing. It's almost midnight. Probably better not to call or text at this hour. I head back to Jane's where I offload and head home.

I curl up on my couch with a plate of veggies and vinaigrette. I munch mindlessly as I channel surf with Jake next to me.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>My condo is still. Sparse. Quiet. Dark.<p>

My mind is turbulent. Riotous. Stubborn. Loud. And not just my mind, something more. I want something more than this. My phone chirps again.

Yeah, yeah. I know I have a missed call. I know it was Bella. I know she left a message. I know that whatever she said, I probably don't want to hear.

I can't bury my head in the sand and make all this go away.

I can't run from this.

But it doesn't change my desire to do so.

I know I can't solve my problems with alcohol, there are no answers there.

Knowing that doesn't remove my dependence, doesn't alleviate my thirst.

I know I need help.

That doesn't mean I'm going to get it.

I know what this vulnerable, crushing feeling inside me is.

That doesn't mean I'm going to put a name on it.

That doesn't mean I have to acknowledge it, or say it out loud.

I can know it… and ignore it. I can deny it. I can erase her and her mouth and her hair and her eyes and her words and her songs and her touch… all of it.

By sheer force of will.

And sheer force of whiskey.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>The next morning I wake to a one word text from Leah.<p>

**So? ~L**

I groggily text her back. **So, what? ~B**

**So how did he take it? ~L**

**So I didn't exactly tell him. ~B**

**So… that sucks. When are you going to? ~L**

**The next time I talk to him. ~B**

**Good call. You working today? ~L**

**Yup. Noon. ~B**

**Okay. Keep in touch. ~L**

**Okay. ~B**

I contemplate texting Edward. I stare at my phone wondering where the line is between appropriate levels of missing someone you just saw and freaky stalker behaviors. I left him a message yesterday. How long should it take him to call me back?

I bite back all my self conscious doubts. I smother the semi-desperate need I feel nagging at me, wanting just a word of reassurance. That he had a good time, too. That he wants to see me again.

Sunday is pretty much the exact same day as Saturday. Except longer. And lamer.

I remind myself that at the end of this marathon awaits Christmas and New Years. And some time off. These weeks leading up to the holidays serve to help me appreciate every other weekend of my life. It's the uncomfortable chord and I can't wait for it to break.

My alarm clock goes off _way_ too early on Monday morning. I contemplate taking a mental health day, but I'd like to see Edward. I only get a handful of paid days off a year and I enjoy saving them for the end of this run.

So, I grumble my way out of bed and into action.

I am somewhat bright eyed and bushy tailed by the time I pull into my parking lot at work. My heart deflates a bit when I notice that the Jag is nowhere to be seen. A thought flashes through my head - immediate and irrational - that we were supposed to at least fuck before he started avoiding me.

IS he avoiding me?

Survey says?

Maybe.

I head into work and try not to think about it. I replay Friday night in my head, wondering if I did something to put him off, or if maybe he feels embarrassed by his nightmare. That makes the most sense to me. A man like Edward would not like an exposé of that kind. A man like Edward hides his sensitive side for a reason.

Or maybe, somehow, he already knows about me. Maybe he figured it out. Maybe he saw the box of wigs I left out in my spare room. Maybe he saw the Jodee catalogue by my bed. I really have no way of knowing if he snooped through my house while I slept.

Something tells me he wouldn't… but I don't really know.

And if he figured it out, then maybe, this is already over. Or maybe, he is working out how to get past it.

Yeah, right.

I hate that I can't just be a normal girl here. Normally waiting for a guy to call me back. Normally worrying if he is into me or not. Normally fretting about normal things. Everything about me is about my missing pieces. Everything about everything I do is this half-self.

For the millionth time, I wonder if it would be different if I had had reconstruction.

If I made the wrong choice.

I was so young then. Still, I thought I knew everything. I thought… well, that doesn't really matter. I'm here now.

I sigh and walk next door to Allstate. It's warm and quiet inside. Edward's office is closed. Alice's office is dark. Reception is empty, as usual.

Emmett's head pokes out his office door, followed by the rest of him.

He smiles. It's the warmest smile I've ever seen on the face of a Cullen. "Hey, Bella."

I can't help but smile back. "Hi."

"Edward called in sick. Or… were you here to see Alice?"

Gosh, Emmett's a big man. Much bigger than his brother. They really don't look a thing alike. Emmett's whole face is good natured, no broodiness. No melancholy. His eyes are blue, flawless, like the sky of every school-free summer day. "No, I was here to see Edward. Do you think he will be back tomorrow?"

"Hard to say. You could call him."

"Yeah. I'll do that." No, I won't. I called him once. Twice makes me look impatient. Impatient and desperate.

"Hey, you're working his party this weekend, right?"

I nod.

"Cool. I'll see you then, then."

On my way back to my suite, I feel more than ever, like this party is a bad idea.

I send Edward a text.

**I heard that you're sick. Do you need anything? I make pretty awesome soup. With meat, even. ~B**

No response.

* * *

><p>**EPOV** Tuesday<p>

* * *

><p>"Go away, Alice."<p>

"What the fuck, Edward? You're not fucking sick. Get your ass up."

"Alice. Go away."

"I don't want to spend another day dealing with your clients. You need to get your shit together." I hear bottles clinking. "Are you drunk?"

"Not really." Maybe a little. I peek my eyes open right as Alice rips open the curtain. The light stabs into my skull like an angry ice pick. I have never regretted giving my little sister a key to the condo more than I do in this moment. "Go away, Al."

She is right in my face now. I back up, sliding across the sheets, draping my arm over my eyes. Her voice is small and gentle. "Are you _trying_ to kill yourself?"

"No. That would be a happy side effect, though."

Her slight weight depresses the bed next to me. Irritation ridges my spine, grips my throat, makes me tense.

"What… happened? I haven't seen you like THIS in a long time."

"I don't want to talk about it, you should know that."

"Of course you don't."

I grunt.

"Edward. Is it Bella?"

Something hurts, almost like the feeling right before a retch. "Alice. Please?"

"You can't avoid this. You can't avoid her. She works in our building for pity's sake."

I pull a pillow over my face and roll into the mattress.

"Emmett said she came by yesterday, looking for you."

"I know. She called, too." My voice sounds like mmmmph clllld tooo. I want to scream it. I want to punch something. I want to hurt in a different way. I toss the pillow off my face and sit, the whole room creaking uncomfortably around me as I do. My fingers find my nightstand and the tumbler there, but I don't drink from it. I just hold it as Alice watches me. Her sweet face, her eyes accusatory and sympathetic all at once. I can only imagine what I look like right now. Grizzly. I'm sure at least my hair looks normal.

Her eyes travel down to my hands which are shaking slightly as I try to maintain my grip on this glass.

"You want some water?" She holds her hand out for my glass. I drain it and she gives me a face full of disdain. "Have you ever thought about, maybe… "

"Alice. Please." My voice shakes. Everything shakes.

"Stop shushing me. Someone has to tell you these things."

"I'd rather you just fucked off, no offense."

"Edward. Who ARE you? How long can you live your life like this?"

"Fucking great. THAT's what I need right now. A lecture."

"It IS what you need. Look at yourself."

"'Drather not, actually."

"Who do you see when you look in the mirror? You know who I see when I look at you? I see Carlisle. I never would have guessed that you aspired to be our father, Edward. Use people, cast them aside, try to solve your problems with money. And liquor. At least Carlisle has some scruples."

I rage under my skin. I can feel it around my eyes. The burn of anger. The burn of exactly how right she is.

"You swore, Edward. Do you remember? In the playhouse? The world is a beautiful place, you said. I remember. Do you?"

"That was before I became a murderer, Alice. The world is not a beautiful place. It's shit."

"Being a soldier… is NOT… being a murderer."

I press my palms into my eye sockets until it hurts. "Right. That's the politically correct term for what I am. Was. Am. A soldier. A fucking tool. A weapon of mass destruction. The hand of God, who is on our side… because… I don't know. Alice. I just… I just don't know. Please… leave me alone." I'm begging now. I'm dangerously close to tears.

But she doesn't leave me alone.

Not this time.

Somehow she bullies me into taking a shower. And it feels good. I stay in for a long time, the hot water washing away some of the ache, running down the drain, carrying a little bit of my futility with it. But my chest still hurts. An oppressive funereal weight that feels markedly more burdensome the last few days.

And I know why.

I think about Bella. About her huge, dark eyes and her touch. About holding her. Her laughter, her secretive smile and her capable caring hands.

I feel like I've lost something. Something bright, something soothing, something I don't remotely deserve.

It's already over.

* * *

><p>**BPOV** Wednesday<p>

* * *

><p>He's here. I can FEEL him in his office next door. I don't know how. I don't know why. I just know he is there, quietly working, quietly being.<p>

I find excuses to leave my suite in the hope of running into him.

The break room is empty. The halls are empty.

I am on edge the clock round. I itch and yearn from the inside, longing to assuage the growing suspicion that he is avoiding me. That he is placing distance between us. More distance.

That our flirtation, or whatever it is, is over.

I end up working late, the day stretches into evening, and the skies have gone dark by the time I lock up my suite and head out. The parking lot is almost empty. My car sits in a big circle of light, a thin layer of moisture collecting on the windows. I sigh and walk briskly towards it, keys at the ready.

Behind an Escalade on the other side of the lot, is a glint of silver that draws my eye. The Jag. I turn back towards the building. There is a square of yellow in a sea of darkness, right where Allstate is.

And Edward in the window. I can't see his face, because he is backlit, but I can tell it's him. His hair.

His hair.

I lift my hand to wave just as his blinds close.

* * *

><p>**EPOV** Thursday<p>

* * *

><p>The wall of fucking.<p>

'Fucking' manifests distance between me and my partner.

She was right. Touching someone, touching their insides, letting them touch me. It's not intimacy. I don't want intimacy.

I want to find distraction in a body like I do in a bottle.

I can drink anything.

I just drink. I don't savor. I don't consider its aroma or its color or its age. I know when I find a scotch I prefer… but I will drink whatever is available. I can drink swill. I can drink liquid amber. I can drink anything, because it helps me numb the pain.

I've never thirsted for one brand in particular. I've never found myself reluctant, afraid to break the seal and drink her. It. Her.

I've never feared to find a brand of such excellence that swill becomes intolerable.

I saw her today. From my window, when she strode across the parking lot to get the mail. She pulled it out of the slot and dropped it, envelopes splattering across the cement. Then she bent and collected it, in her tight skirt and boots. In her black sweater and blue top. That deep sapphire blue that must make up half her fucking wardrobe. And her fine fucking ass, and all that rich mahogany hair.

All that ache inside me, just to look at her. Just to fucking LOOK at her.

I turn the volume way up. Let my neighbors complain.

_As long as there is whiskey in the world, we can drink away the heartache, we can drink away the girls, who we long to love, but will never touch._

I hated this album when she first gave it to me. The singer's voice is odd, the music has a yokel-ish feel, and the whole thing seemed to be about despair and doomsday and drinking. About getting old and dying. Every song discordant and uncomfortable. Unrefined, strident music challenging me to listen in a new way.

But it grew on me. And now I love it.

I think I know what her favorite song on the album is. It would be mine, but another song grabbed me.

A song that reminds me of her.

And I don't fucking like it.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>By Friday evening I have come to the firm conclusion that Edward IS in fact, avoiding me. I haven't called him or texted him again, and it's taken a massive amount of willpower not to pick up my phone and send him a "What the fuck is your problem?" text.<p>

I don't really know how to handle this.

I suppose we could probably revert back to the way we were, just nodding at each other in the halls, not speaking, except for this fucking Christmas party. Jane has asked me to confirm a final head count for her and that just underscores the fact that I have to go work for a man who wants nothing to do with me, for some reason, anymore.

I went over to Allstate again. He was gone.

I call him on my way home. Go figure, he doesn't answer. I leave a message.

I make dinner with a heavy heart. I walk Jake in the crisp evening air. This is better, I tell myself. This is for the best.

I didn't want to have the conversation, and now I don't have to. I can go back into hiding.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I have to stop this. I have to be better than I am. I have to change. How can I change?<p>

I can't change.

Why don't other people FEEL things the way that I do?

Would that really make anything easier, if they did?

Maybe I should get therapy.

Maybe I should leave Seattle.

Maybe I should just do what I always do.

My phone lights up. I can't hear it over the music. I just see Bella's face fill the screen, a pic I snapped of her while she slept. Her dark lashes down, her lips softly parted.

I decline the call and her face vanishes. A minute later the message icon pops up. I play it.

Her sweet voice sounds defeated. It tugs at something inside me. "Hey, it's Bella. Jane asked me to confirm your final headcount for Saturday." There is a long pause. "Look, Edward. I, uh… well. I'm sorry if I… well. I'm just sorry this didn't… work out. God, that sounds lame. I'm going to speak to Jane about swapping events this weekend. I don't know if I can, but maybe, and well, we have lots of capable people at Voltaire Catering who could do it. Just wanted to let you know. Anyway. If you prefer, you could talk to Jane directly. See you around."

See you around.

I try to imagine passing Bella in the hallway and not wanting to pull her close to me. How did I do it for so many years? I know how. I looked at her and thought she wasn't anything special. I remember, distinctly, lumping her into a Not Worth Bothering category.

What changed?

Nothing about her, really. Same long dark hair, long stride, long lashes. Same melancholy brown eyes.

She always used to give me this tight, boring little smile, a polite smile, as she sped past me.

And now… now when I see her… she radiates something at me. Her whole self.

I remember thinking her eyes reminded me of those that peer out from the oppressive black of a niqab. Mysterious eyes, so often carrying misplaced shame, longing eyes, full of hope and sadness, both. Eyes that can move you to tears, just by looking at you. Eyes that make you want to change the world, because they look at you and then look down. Eyes that make you question everything.

Yourself, most of all.

Women here… take so much for granted. Wasteful women worrying about the stupidest things like fifteen pounds or which fragrance defines them. Women injecting their faces with the next biochemical weapon, spending endless dollars on hormones and placenta derivatives so that they can battle their greatest nemesis. Age.

Women hiding, their make-up disguises as effective as any burqa, in a different way.

Women looking for self-assurance in a fuck. Transforming my looks, my ego, into their power, their accomplishment, like it's some kind of alchemy. Sexual alchemy. Sexual theft. It's always taking.

Take take take.

And I am no fucking different. I let them. The only thing I have to give someone is my envelope. This pretty little envelope, with nothing left inside. I might as well hang a VACANCY sign in my eyes. I might as well flush my money down the toilet for all the good it does anybody.

Yup, I am just like Carlisle. **Worse. **Fucking hypocrite.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>Jane ambushes me as soon as I walk in the door, her apron splattered with chicken goop.<p>

"What happened between you and Edward?"

I really just don't want to deal with any of this. "Nothing, why?" I toss my bag and sunglasses into the corner and head over to the sink to wash my hands. Jane follows me, using her clean-ish wrist to push her glasses off her nose and up into her hair.

"He confirmed his headcount yesterday."

"Great."

"He asked me not to let you switch jobs. I didn't know you wanted to. You can, if you want."

"No, it's OK. This one is fine. It just adds to the extreme chaos of my life."

"Extreme chaos equals extreme success."

"Only for you, Jane. Because you are magic," I say, popping on a pair of gloves.

"Bet your fucking ass!"

Same day, every day.

We work, Jane cursing regularly, until it's time to load up my car. Jane gives me my access codes, cards and ID, and I head out.

My car smells like BBQ chicken skewers, pesto and sage. I have enough fucking food to feed the whole building. What I don't have right now is the cajones to look Edward in the face. I know he will see in my eyes everything I want to say to him and can't. I know, when he looks at me, he will see a big fat WHY written all over me.

I have to find some sort of calm neutral. I have to stop asking myself why he wants nothing to do with me, and just accept it. The reason doesn't really matter. It just IS that way.

One of those things about reality you can't change, you just have to accept it and move on.

Why did he ask Jane not to let me switch? I mean, it's been a week since I last saw or spoke to him. He hasn't acknowledged me once in seven days. The fact that he wants me in his home… seems a little, I don't know… awkward.

Yep, this has all the makings of the most awkward night of my life.

Oh, well. At least it's not a wedding. Just get through it.

Just get through it.

I park, hop out and check in with the concierge. She shows me to the service elevators.

The ride up to Edward's condo feels otherworldly. Like, now I know how Katniss Everdeen felt being lifted into the arena. Unknown, infinite badness awaits me at the end of this upwards journey.

Okay, so maybe it's not QUITE as bad as the threat of being slaughtered for entertainment purposes, but I honestly can't imagine my heart could beat any harder.

I take a deep breath outside of his door and raise my hand to knock. And don't. I take another breath. I clear my mind of all the things I wanted from this man, all the things I hoped for. He is a client. He is just a client.

I knock.

The door swings in and he looks so good it hurts. I can't believe I haven't laid eyes on him in a week. I can't believe I went my whole life without looking at him. He is all the things I want to suck into my vision. He is all the things I don't get to have.

He is wearing his detached serious face, and I try to match it. I'll have what he is having, but throw in a dash of smile.

Right now, it's the hardest fucking thing I've ever done. Smiling.

"Hi. I'm Bella Swan with Voltaire Catering." I hold my hand out. He looks at it. Then he looks at me, a single brow up in query.

"Come on, Edward, this is me trying to be professional."

He puts his smooth, strong hand in mine. "Edward Cullen. Host."

We just look at each other. His hand holding mine. It feels like he wrapped all of himself around all of me. I feel surrounded by him, by his eyes. Eyes like an exotic Amazonian bird, luminescent green. He is in black slacks and an A-shirt, his solid arms and shoulders exposed, taunting me with their illusion of dependability. He's barefoot, and the aristocratic structure of his feet does nothing to make him more accessible.

And his hair, that gorgeous hair, so like Eris just ran her fingers through it, wild and windblown.

His scent, filling all the tiny crevices of my being. It hurts in all those deep places that purred contentedly only a week ago.

I can't hold his gaze. I can't keep looking at all that beauty. It all makes me feel sort of cheated. My eyes fall. He lets me go.

He steps to the side and gestures for me to come in. "I'll show you the kitchen."

"Okay."

I follow him into the open space of the condo. It's warm and dimly lit, and it smells good, like Christmas. Like cloves and sugar and Edward Cullen.

The back of his neck, which may still be my favorite part of him, taunts me with its untouchability.

I force my attention away from him and towards my surroundings. Everywhere I look is marble and steel. And glass. Dark floor to ceiling windows that reflect the space back at me. Clean and masculine. The black of speakers and electronics, leather couches, blond furniture.

Art that transports me to other times, other places. Places I always wanted to see in person. Giza, Guatemala, Cambodia. Ruins and mountains and rainforests. Waterfalls and volcanoes. This earth and all its ecology.

He stops abruptly and turns to me.

"Jane gave you the layout, so you know where to set up?"

"I do."

"And you know where the rental kitchen is and the wine cellar? She gave you the key?"

"She did."

I can tell he is biting the inside of his lip. I love it when he does that.

Ugh, stop punishing yourself, Bella. Fuck.

He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket to check the time. Then he looks at me. "Well, you have a lot to do. I'm going to finish getting ready." And he leaves the room.

Yep, this has to be, without a doubt, the single most awkward situation I've ever been in.

I set to work. I make trip after trip from my car, up the service elevators, into the event kitchen, and back to his condo. I set up all the food he ordered: crudités platter, shrimp in a big clam shell, empanadas, mushroom raviolis. Chicken skewers with peanut glaze, food, food, food. I set up ice buckets full of water bottles, Italian sodas, exotic juices. I ready his bar; referencing the list that Jane gave me of reds, whites, Chablis, champagne, their maker, their vintage, their quantity. I pull cases from the wine cellar and quickly uncork bottle after bottle. Liquor of all varieties is laid out. The bar will be assisted self service, and that means I will be in a constant state of mad-dashery as I keep it stocked. As I replenish food. As I bus and clean.

I put out cherries and limes, lemons and onions and olives in serve ware. I twist stacks of napkins into decorative piles. I eat a cherry. I try to stay focused on what I need to do.

I stack empty boxes behind the bar for used bottles. I set up garbage cans, candy dishes, dishes with salted nuts. I pull food from his double ovens, which look seldom if not ever used, and move it into chafing dishes. I stick food in his nearly empty refrigerator. I just stare into it. He has a jar of peanut butter, one of jelly and a squeeze bottle of mustard.

I try not to think about him.

I check my watch. I chop and arrange, I garnish platters and lay out cookies and brownies. I slice cheesecakes and apple tarts. I can do this. I am already doing it.

I figure what percentage of this evening is already over, and how much looms before me. Maybe I'm twenty-five percent done.

When everything is mostly ready, I take off my prepping apron and drift over to the window. The view is incredible. There are lit boats out on the Sound, rocking gently in the darkness. I look down onto Pike Place. I remember him kissing me, two short weeks ago, down in that plaza. His cruel words, his warm mouth, my mouth and how it burned that day and every day. Every time he touched it.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I am not going to touch her.<p>

I am not going to interrupt her work, which she does with such precision, such method, that I could watch her for hours. Her nimble fingers in motion, her ponytail swishing in the wake of her every movement. Her face, a picture of concentration, concentration and something else. Determination. Hot determination.

I watch her move through spaces that belong to me, in my domain, her hands caressing my knives, my door handles, all of the things that are mine, like it won't leave a permanent mark. The way she touches everything leaves a mark.

She wanders over to the window. She's just flipped up the lock on the sliding glass door when I stop her.

"Some view, huh?"

She starts. Her cheeks. Her fucking cheeks... her neck.

I move towards her. My every motion a mixture of eagerness and restraint. My flesh demands to be close to her. My conscious mind insists upon distance. Her eyes follow every part of my approach, like she may never see me again.

"Yes. You're really high up here. I've never been so high up in this building. I bet you can see Maple Leaf from here." Her voice sounds like she is forcing it to be light. Casual and indifferent.

"Not quite." I roll the loose cufflinks in my hand and hold them out. "Help me, Bella."

She moves towards me like the slave to her master's order, holding her hand out. I set the jeweled pins in her hands and she looks at them. Her eyes are a world of bewildered consternation. "I... I'm sorry, Edward. I don't know how these work." She makes to give them back to me, her eyes, her laughing eyes, silent and downcast.

Goddamn her refugee eyes, carrying sorrow that doesn't entirely belong to her.

"It's not that difficult. Just use them to pin the cuff back. Through the buttonhole. Like buttons."

She nods and reaches for my sleeve. I watch her as she focuses her attention to the task of my wrists, the heat of her proximity, the scent of her nearness making my head swim.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I am trying not to let his nearness unnerve me, but I fumble a little with the small silver clasps. I can feel the heat radiating off of him. I can smell his aftershave. I can sense his perturbing focus on my face as I move from one wrist to the next. I finish and pull my hands back, and before I've been able to land my eyes on his face, his hands are clutching at me. I'm moving. My backwards motion is halted by the wall. A hard, unyielding wall at my back, another at my front as Edward's mouth finds mine.<p>

Between us naturally - I've come to understand - exists ravenous hunger that baffles me. In this moment, it's more than that. It is desperate, psychopathic. Edward is famished. I am hollow. I can fill myself with him. I can slake this unending thirst with his mouth. He can use my body as fuel. He can consume me to reach his future.

Biting and sucking and inhaling. Frantic, frantic, frantic mouths. Tongues that can't get deep enough. Teeth that can't scrape hard enough. Minds that can't taste fully, not in a kiss, WHO we really are.

Everything I am is in this kiss. Everything I have to give.

I give it to you, Edward. I give you all of it. Take it. I want you to have it.

Mine, his mouth says. All you are is mine.

I give it to you. I give it to you. Have it, take it.

His fingers are fumbling with the buttons at my navel. Not in question, not as a proposal that we move this party into a horizontal position. In demand. In mindless demand.

Urgent, negligent, unthinking, physical imperative. We must be closer. We must erase this week of distance, this week of detachment, this week that went against both our natures.

Magnets aren't meant to repel each other. Flip them around. Flip them around.

This is right.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I don't care about the right way to do this, or the wrong way to do this. These concepts no longer exist. What exists are two beings that must, in this short cruel life, be one. Survival in this moment depends on fusion.<p>

On this star kindled between us going nova. Supernova.

Galactic need.

Let's turn matter into energy. Let's change the rotation of this planet. Let's tilt both our worlds on their axis.

Let's fuck.

Her hands find mine on the zipper of her black work pants right as I yank it down. The clean stretched cotton of her panties, visible in the V of her open fly makes my heavy cock strain inside my pants.

She is too good for me, then fine. She can go. I can let her go. After this. After this once.

It's not like it's going to mean anything.

It won't mean anything.

Again. A-Fucking-Gain, she is pushing me away. Her hands, keeping mine from her.

Enough. Enough.

I've fucking had enough.

"You want me, Bella," I tell her, like she doesn't know. Like she is a child who simply needs to understand. She needs to understand that THIS, THIS THING between us, is not normal. She needs to appreciate that this, whatever it is, is special.

"I do," she breathes. "I've never wanted anything. ANYTHING, like I want you. But. We need to talk. I have to tell you something."

"I don't want to talk. I don't want to hear it."

"It's important. Please. After last weekend, I feel like… I've been wrong…" Her face is apologetic and I interrupt her.

"Bella. Let's not talk about last weekend, okay? Yes. I cry in my sleep. I don't want to discuss it."

Her expression changes to one of bewilderment. "I wasn't talking about that. I was talking about me."

I take a breath. Okay, she is talking about her. Her face is a mystery.

"Edward. I don't know why…"

My front door opens and closes loudly. I back away from her. She turns to the wall and zips her pants up. I watch her move into the kitchen and tie an apron around her waist. Her back is to me, but I can see her trembling as she turns my ovens off, turns my warming drawer on. Moves empanadas from one to the other.

I stand frozen, watching her, and that is where Carlisle and Esme find me.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>The condo slowly starts filling up with people. Carlisle remembers me from his wedding. Esme thanks me for doing so much to make her day the best it could be despite the rain, the florist sending the wrong flowers, and the DJ screwing up the music. I don't remember any of that, but whatever. I study her face as she talks. She can't be much older than Edward.<p>

This family is… well, it's unconventional at the very least.

Alice shows up with Jasper, who immediately finds me at the bar where I'm helping people get drinks as they trickle in and make their way to the alcohol.

It's my turn to be appreciative. His longish hair is pulled back into a ponytail, showing the shaved sides. He's growing sideburns. His suit is impeccable, and he is all clean lines and gentle eyes. He hugs me. "You look great."

"Thanks," he shrugs. "Alice," he says by way of explanation.

"Yeah. I gotcha. She's got nice taste. You look amazing."

"Thanks, Bells."

"So, how's it feel to be on the other end of the party?"

"I don't know yet. What kind of beer will I be drinking?"

I point to the bucket. "Help yourself."

He picks one and turns back to me. "So, not to be rude, but you look like you've been punched in the mouth. I guess he's 'talking' to you again." He makes little quote gestures around the word talking.

I press my fingers against my lips and sigh. "I don't know, Jazz. I give up."

He nods contemplatively. "I've been thinking, actually, that maybe I shouldn't have gotten involved, giving you those tags. You've been so quiet this last week. You know that? You barely smiled at all."

"I'm just kind of confused. Honestly. Everything about his behavior is just confusing me right now."

Jasper nods again, his eyes tracking Alice as she disappears into Edward's bedroom with him and a handful of other people. I watch Edward. His eyes find mine briefly before he vanishes. His face is a world of pinched ego.

"I think _he_ is confused, himself. Bella… you are seriously, one of the most amazing women I know. If I were a betting man…"

I lift a brow. "IF?"

He smiles. His big, contagious smile. "IF… my money says, that guy is smitten with you."

"Smitten? Is this how people talk where you're from, Okie?"

He punches me gently in the arm. "I'm not an Okie. And I told you this before. He's pulling your ponytail, little girl. Watch out."

I purse my lips and think about it. "Okay. Maybe."

"Definitely."

I work bar for awhile, helping women get cocktails while Jasper and I chat on. I pour wine and pop caps off of beers as people continue to stream in. I'm smiling and laughing, but inside I feel like a maelstrom has been unleashed.

I'm eager for the end of this evening so that I can talk to Edward. Hopefully he won't be blitzed, so I can really talk to him. Drag skeletons out of the closet and make them dance.

He hasn't reemerged from the bedroom. He hasn't been to the bar.

I restock beer into ice and when I'm done, I straighten to find myself looking right into his eyes. His eyes framed by darkened lashes and bouncing blonde waves. "Hey Rose."

She smiles, showing me her teeth, so like Edward's. "Hey Bella. Working again, I see."

"Yep. Story of my life."

She is drop dead gorgeous in deep red. Her cleavage swells like a beacon from Aphrodite, a haven for lust and intrigue. Her curves, the hallmark of womanly beauty. Emmett materializes next to her, his blue eyes vivid against his dark suit. He takes her arm, his big hands so gentle, reverent. "Have you decided what you're drinking tonight, beautiful?"

My mind spins. How does this work for them?

Rose's eyes meet mine and they positively twinkle. Now, they look nothing at all like Edward's. They shine, they sing out her radiant happiness, they make me feel confined by my jealousy. "How about a Cab? Does he have one back there?"

"Coming up," I say.

Emmett asks for a micro-brew and when I hand him a Lagunitas I can see it all over his face. Love. That is what love looks like. Like Emmett, like Rose, like Jasper and Alice, and Leah and Sam, and my dad and everybody on this fucking planet. Everybody but Edward. And me.

Fakers we. Maybe both of us incapable.

She has a glittering gem on her finger. Emmett wanders off and I ask her about it. "Is it official?"

She laughs and says quietly, "Not at all. I almost didn't wear it here tonight. In fact, I almost didn't even bother coming. But, there will be people here who it's good to schmooze. You know?"

I nod, even though, I don't, really. "Does he hold this party every year?"

"He does. Oh my god, Bella, last year, the food was sooo bad. I'm so glad he got Jane to do it this year." She gives me her smile again, and I can see exactly what Edward must have meant when he said artists paint themselves into everything they create. He saw himself in her, unconsciously. She mirrors him, but she is happy, she is grounded. Emmett reappears and Rosalie gives me a little wave as he leads her into a crowd of chatting people.

I duck out and head to the event kitchen where I've stashed all my back up stuff.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>HOLY FUCKING SHIT.<p>

I am bigger than this body. I am all things. All things are me. I can feel the blood as it pulses in my veins, into my brain, where molecules collide and illuminate me from the inside.

I lean back against my bedroom wall, my eyes closed. I can't believe it holds me up. I can't believe anything can hold me.

I am immortal. I am immortality.

I am my hair. I am a lightening rod. I am a supercharged ion.

I look into Irina's eyes.

I am all this and her, too. She smiles. This shiny, postured, infomercial, moving-mannequin smile. Red and fake and empty.

"Good shit… right?" Her mouth moves from another dimension. I mentally reach for it and collide it with this one. This toxic dimension where I am a king.

Toxic. Toxicity. My kingdom. "Yes. Good."

The prescription for this party. The crutch.

In this moment, I could fly. What the fuck. Fuck it. I AM flying.

I can feel Alice watching me. Her words are in my mind, I can read her thoughts. I lock eyes with her. I send her a message without moving my mouth. I invite her to fly with me. She shakes her head. Her dismay is like so many sand castles being crushed under my feet. Crushed under my will.

Vicky laughs and reaches for her Chablis. I bet if I tried hard enough, I could knock that glass over without touching it.

There is nothing in this moment that I am incapable of.

Nothing.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>This party looks like a casting call for a Barbie-Ken docu-drama. Everyone is tall and leggy, with bodacious hair, including Edward Cullen himself.<p>

I am swimming in a sea of plastic and perfume. Lipstick and liner and diamonds and ties. Watches of exceptional quality flash their faces at me as men tip their drinks back. Pearly white teeth glint in the low light of the condo, feet tap as people unconsciously keep the rhythm of the House techno beat jittering in the background.

No Christmas music here. Just the unce-unce-unce of synthesized drums and the vibration of frenetic bass lines.

A lot of these people look sort of fatigued, as if they have spent their lives trying to swim upstream in order to mate and die. I keep the alcohol flowing.

Edward is very popular with the women in attendance. I try to ignore how they orbit around him like the gas giant he is. He is Sol, aflame, and circling incessantly around him is Venus, a luscious red-head with a Molly Ringwald mouth. I dub another woman Mars, a dark-haired Clydesdale of a woman, a gladiator of a woman, tan and strong, with eyes black as pitch. Venus moves like a model, Mars is a dominatrix teasing her quarry. All eyes seem to follow them, as they move. Even mine. Even though I want to look at anything BUT them. Anything but Edward. Anything that isn't the way they drag their hands over his shoulders, the way they smile up at him, the way they stand in open invitation.

I'm watching a mating dance, a lion and his pride.

They make me feel like a child, in all their curvy statuesque glory.

They make me feel small, asymmetrical and unripe. Food not fit for eating.

They make me feel foolish at a fundamental level.

It's made worse by the fact that Venus is actually really nice. I want to dislike her, but every time she comes to me at the bar she has a radiant smile. Her locket around her neck has a picture of her dog in it, a little fluffy thing named T-Rex. She giggles a lot, drinks Chablis, and when she comes to me she asks me to "fill her glass with that shitty wine that only she will drink."

She tells me how Edward rolls his eyes at her taste, but she likes what she likes. She tells me how despite his teasing, he is a good guy because he remembered to have it for her. She tells me how important insurance is, how she is some sort of heiress. But she isn't snooty about it.

She tells me about T-Rex's diet and how much shinier his coat is now that he is on better dog chow.

She tells me how she and Edward used to have a thing, but Edward gets bored. She tells me that she doesn't hold it against him. She tells me that he's staring at me and maybe I'm next.

I peek at him out of the corner of my eye. He is staring. Intently. And there is something really wrong with his eyes. They're black.

Deep, angry, hostile black.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>Bella FUCKING Swan.<p>

She wanders my condo picking up discarded napkins and toothpicks. People hand her their plates and she thanks them like she's been given a fucking gift. She goes to her knees to wipe up their spills. She apologizes to them when they get in her way.

She serves these people. How fucking ironic.

She should only ever go to her knees for one purpose. My purpose.

And then I realize… she shouldn't be on her knees for me either. She is the worshipped. I am the worshipper.

She is a temple... a moving temple, embodiment of all that is holy.

I should be the one on my knees. I should spend my life there.

I contemplate her hips under that apron and her hands pulling me closer and I wonder what her orgasm sounds like, feels like. I wonder if I can bring it into my reality from another dimension, I wonder if I can give my thoughts to her by osmosis.

One hundred billion neurons in this brain and I can feel each one of them. One hundred trillion interconnections.

She looks over at me and I feel like I was mistaken. I don't want to give her my thoughts… I want to pluck hers from her head. I want to stretch myself into both our beings. I want to see the world from her perspective. I want to see me, the way Bella sees me. I want to be me, the way I am when I am with her.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>People are dancing. People are drinking. Edward, I'm pretty sure, is high on something. He surges with intensity. He is a portrait of barely controlled chaos.<p>

I've come to learn that Mars' actual name is Irina. She doesn't come to the bar. She doesn't stray far from Edward, in fact. She watches him. He watches me. She watches him watch me.

I just want this night to end.

Venus is Victoria. There are another couple of planets circling the outer limits of his solar system, and they are still nameless. Jasper and Alice are gone. She hugged me and told me to keep an eye on her brother.

Okay.

I restock water and soda. I head to the event kitchen for another bag of ice. When I get back inside the condo, it is plucked from my shoulder. I turn to find a nice looking thirty-something man with ice-blue eyes and a thin face smiling sweetly at me. It is so rare that people actually help me while I'm working. I thank him.

"No problem. I used to do this shite, too. Glad I doon't, anymoore." He has just the slightest clip of a brogue.

He carries the bag into the kitchen for me and sets it in the sink. "Who do you werk for?"

"Voltaire Catering."

"Ahhh. Weeel, you're doing a spectacular job. What's your name?"

"Bella." I stick my hand out. He takes it, but he doesn't shake. He raises it to his lips and places a kiss against my knuckle. I give him a questioning look.

"Beautiful name… for a beautiful gerrrl."

His eyes shine and I can't help giving him a warm smile. "Thank you. And you are?"

"Alec. I werrk with Rosalie at State Farm. I'm the brroker." I like the way he purrs his Rs. It's not quite a full roll, it's just a little extra emphasis.

"Nice to meet you. She holds my policies."

"Oh, good. She's really good at what she does. Very careful."

"Yes. My dad has his policies with her, too. Deputy Captain Swan."

"Oh aye. Swan. So, you're his daughter then. Ye favor him quite a bit, don't ya? Ah, speak of the devil, hi Rosie."

"Hey Alec," Rosalie says as she wraps her arm around him. They start talking about insurance and I see an opportunity to duck out. I excuse myself to refill ice. I round the corner and come face to face with Edward. He is all copper hair and wide black eyes. If I didn't know his eyes were green, there would be no way of telling. He is cool indifference personified, and he holds his hand out expectantly.

"What?"

"Give me your hand, Bella." His voice is smooth, pooling inside me like a ribbon of melted caramel.

I juggle the bag of ice and place my cold hand in his.

He doesn't let go of my gaze as he pulls my hand into his chest, rubbing the knuckle against his lapel. "I can feel his touch on you. It clings to your hand like a slime."

"What?" I breathe, so confused.

"His mouth… touched you. I can sense the taint of it."

"Edward… you really need to get a grip. What are you on?"

His eyes continue to bore into me. The ice is cold against my skin, even through my layers. He doesn't offer to take it. He just looks at me from under his brows.

He smiles.

It's kind of disturbing.

His eyes shift and I know I've been dismissed.

Fucking A.

* * *

><p>**EPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>FUCK FUCK FUCK.<p>

Staying small, staying cool, staying sane inside of this body is taking every iota of me. I push all my energy into fitting this God, this hulk, this titan, into this suit. I live here.

I breathe here.

I breathe her.

I OWN HER.

Her delicate bewilderment. Her fractious temper… her new blossom grace.

No one touches her. I thought I made that clear.

I laugh.

The people around me think they are clever or funny or witty or alive. They are reanimated dancing leftovers. I've already eaten them. I've already turned them into shit.

I've already digested this vegetable matter… this Soylent Green… these unique butterflies.

I've already transformed them into compost. My condo is full of seventy-plus-percent-post-consumer-recycled-content.

Including me.

I've already died.

This heart attack waiting for me means nothing. Let it explode. Let it. Do it.

Do it. Go Go. GO.

Thrum thrum thrum thrum.

My eyes find Bella, like they have thousands of times already inside of this one minute. She is dumping ice into a steel bucket. She is looking up. She is feeling my eyes on her. My claim on her. My chain on her.

You can't have her. I can't have her. No one can HAVE her. She is not HAVABLE. She is not recyclable. She is not transformable.

She is the only real person here. Perfect girl… I…

I have to save her. From…

Myself.

Because there is no way I can keep myself from her.

I am the predator here.

* * *

><p>**BPOV**<p>

* * *

><p>I really think Edward might be losing his mind. I really think I might be the only person here who can tell.<p>

It's getting late and people are starting to drift out. I snuff the Sterno underneath the food to give it time to cool before I pack it all up. I start moving go-backs out to the event kitchen, staging everything there for the time being. I wash dishes and dump recyclables down the chute.

In the condo, I sweep the rooms, collecting waylaid glasses and trash. I don't pry or open any closed doors, but I do look at his big bed and I do take the cap off his aftershave and sniff it.

I start breaking down the food, transferring it to bags and plastic containers.

People come and say goodnight to me as they leave. They tell me I did an amazing job, they thank me drunkenly and graciously. Victoria hugs me, and makes a joke about how T-Rex has probably destroyed the house in her absence. Alec escorts her out. Esme is being propped up by Carlisle as they say good-bye. The exchange between him and Edward near the door is uncomfortable to watch. You can tell Carlisle feels like he wants to wrap his arms around his oldest son, pull him back from this edge he teeters on, but he doesn't dare lay a hand on him. Edward positively bristles being near him.

How does a person contain that much rage? And not explode?

And then Rosalie is wrapping me up in a hug. She smells exotic and divine. Peaches and cream and sugar and spice. I hug her back. Her eyes, Edward's eyes but kinder, hold mine, and she says, "Be careful, Bella."

Her gaze slides to Edward who is watching both of us while Emmett chats with him and another couple. "Thanks, Rose. I'm sure I'll be fine." I'm not sure exactly what she is warning me to be careful of. Does she think Edward is dangerous? Or... am I the one jumping to that conclusion?

I resume the long process of cleaning up, packing up, loading up. Elevator up... elevator down. People drift in and out around me, collecting their things, having one final drink. I haven't done this event before, but it seems like it was a success.

I slip out and clean the other kitchen, leaving it in unblemished condition. I make several trips down to my car and back up. I return to the condo where the last few people are straggling out. The energetic music is still thumping away and it's a nice soundtrack to clean up to actually. It's like being gifted with a second wind.

I am sticking containers of food in the fridge when I hear it.

What can only be the sound of two people fucking in Edward Cullen's bedroom. Probably against the door.

I move, against my will, towards the sound.

My heart is beating a wild tattoo in my chest, in my ears, in my fingers, as I stare at the door which flexes and shivers in its frame.

I listen to the violence taking place not three feet from me as Sarah McLachlan sings about peace and release in her heavenly voice.

_Passion chokes the flower 'till she cries no more. _

I reach out and place my hand gently against the wood. What am I touching? What part of her presses against my hand through this thin barrier of painted oak.

Her back? The small of it? Her hands, bracing her against the force of Edward's thrusts? Her breasts? Two of them?

A whole woman, a broken man. Both of them thieves, robbing me in this moment.

_I can't help this longing, comfort me, I can't hold it all in, if you won't let me…_

I can hear Edward breathing. I can hear him cursing.

And her moans.

This is fucking.

I am an empty vessel. A moment ago, a heart beat inside of my chest... now it echoes the banging and squeaking of those people... those people on the other side of that door. And this song. This terribly beautiful song which I know is ruined for me forever.

I pull my hand back and return to the kitchen where I hastily pack up my final bag and set it near the door. My vision blurs as I quickly, sloppily, wipe down his cabinet fronts, his counters, his floors, his bar, his sink.

I tell myself it doesn't matter. My neck starts to ache.

I have to get out of here.

All I hear is her now, the animal sounds of fornication drowned out by her voice, as she says his name. Over and over again.

I feel it in my stomach, in my scar, in my throat which is throbbing with my silent demand to keep it all in.

All I want to do is hide.

But I don't get that chance.

I am just crossing the hallway to finally escape when the door to his bedroom, the door bearing his touch and hers, is thrown open with a bang.

I thought I knew what his bedhead looked like. I was wrong. His hair falls in his face, into his eyes, limp strands damp with sweat. His hair, so beloved, has become anathema to me.

His expression, though, is familiar. I've seen it before. I've rejected him before, in this moment.

_Bella, dance with me._

It's torment, it's rage, it's someone dying on the inside. His whole persona is electric as he fills the doorway, his eyes beseeching mine. Asking something from me that I can't even comprehend. Accusing me of something I haven't done.

He has his dress slacks on, riding loose on his hips, and he's shirtless. His chest expands as his lungs slowly fill, a soft tangle of hair marks his collarbone. A fine patina of sweat causes his bare skin to sparkle at me… and something else. The ugliest scar I've ever seen. In the scariest place I can imagine. His left pectoral muscle.

I remind myself that the heart is actually more centrally located, and that he is in fact alive in front of me, but I'm reaching for him, to comfort him... God only knows why. Because it's obvious from that scar that he is lucky to be alive.

_Oh what a lucky man, he was._

Before I can close the distance between us, he speaks. "Stay away from me."

The tone of his voice brooks no argument. I step back.

He moves calmly towards the terrace, towards his own reflection, vivid and precise in the dark glass; and then, in an outburst of temper, the likes of which I have never seen, he yanks open his slider. It's a heavy door, but it bounces and rebounds in its track with the force of his exertion.

The force of his nature. A force of nature.

I can see his form outlined against the darkness, his hands pressed against the railing, his head down, and I am suddenly terrified for him. For thirty some-odd stories of instant suicide, just add jump.

Again, I am moving against my will. Again, in his direction. Again, towards animal sounds, this time of human suffering.

But then he is stepping back inside, and the look of distraught despair is gone. He just looks resigned, resigned and... empty.

He grabs a water bottle from the bucket, screws off the cap, and greedily chugs from it, before handing the nearly empty plastic container to me as he passes me by. He doesn't look at me.

The door to his bedroom slams shut behind him.

I've been dismissed.

I almost make it to the car. Before the levee breaks.

And then I'm sobbing.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I haven't cried this hard since my mom died. Not when I looked in the mirror for the first time after my surgery, not when my doctor told me that I should remove my healthy breast too, just in case.

Not when I made the decision to keep it and see.

Not when it dawned on me that I would probably never have children of my own. Not when I decided not to have children of my own.

I can barely see the road, somehow, by some miracle I make it home. My car is still full of all the shit from the party, but I will deal with that tomorrow. I will deal with all of it tomorrow. Tonight... I am just going to cry.

And I do. For everything. For myself and my pain and my self pity... and my stupidity. I cry for the years behind me, the years ahead of me. I cry for all the stupid decisions I've ever made, and all the stupid decisions that I don't get to make.

And I cry for Edward Cullen and his pain. And his behavior and his despair and how I still wish I could help him, despite myself. I cry for my own stupid compassion. I cry for my idiocy and his and this small existence which is denying me the things that I want. I cry for both our scars and mostly, I cry for my mother's short, beautiful life and the loneliness she gifted me.

I cry for the lesson and the learning of it.

Play with fire, get burned.

I curl into a ball and Jake is right there with me.

Just when I think I'm done crying, it starts again, over and over and over, until finally, my chest is hiccupping and my whole body quakes with the repetitive motion disorder of my intense sadness.

And then it's over. I'm cried out. I'm exhausted. I'm drained. I smell like chicken skewers and beer. And before I know it, I'm sleeping.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I spend Sunday going through the motions.

I dreamed about Edward last night. Edward and his fucking cup of golden sainthood. I don't want your cup, I told him this time. I woke up crying. Again.

Why... how... WHY does this hurt so much, when I knew all along that this was who he is? He never pretended that he was interested in me for anything other than what occurred between him and that woman last night. I never expected that he put other people on hold to pursue me. So why do I feel this gnawing torment inside me? Gnawing torment and loss. Why?

Because he made me feel special? For a quick minute?

Because, against all my better judgment... I really liked him? Because I've seen his pain and his misery and it hurts? Because I thought, foolishly, that I could help him? Because I dreamed of a future where this man, despite all indicators, could love me, for me. Because, even in the face of his detachment, I dreamed it. Stupid girl. I saw it. I hoped.

But he is not that man. I am the one who turned Edward Cullen into something he isn't. It was a fantasy. I created it. I am to blame for this.

And even in those moments when I knew the reality, when I knew it would never be anything, I was still hoping it would at least be sex.

How do I face him? How do I replace my desperate sorrow with the coolness I know I need now? How do I look at him tomorrow, and the next day and the next? How do I see his car and not think of all the time I spent in it? How do I pass him in the hallways and not think of all the times I've touched him? All the times he touched me. All the ways, small though they may be, where he opened up to me.

How can I ever listen to the music we've shared and not think of it as belonging to us?

Is this heartbreak? Is this what it's made of? The ruin of everything you love? The vibrant color of my life blurring into pastel shades of gray and black? The snare drum of my forward motion muddled into the slow sad pull on a violin?

I spend the day fighting this weight in my chest, my lungs tender from crying, my ribcage overworked and the organs inside it thin and papery. Deep breaths stretch my belabored chest, gravity plucks insistently at the corners of my mouth. When I think of him, I have to fight the arrival of fresh tears.

Oh God, I'm so tired.

My mind wanders to last night constantly. And not just last night, but all the days and nights of our short association. Last week and how we spoke of ladders as an analogy. When he called himself impatient, but tempered. How he promised to climb this ladder to the top.

I think of all our conversations, everything that did exist between us. I want it back. I want him to finish what he started.

I didn't start this. HE started it. He took HIS ladder and went home.

He led ME on. He pursued me, he cornered me, he pointed all his weapons at me. I was going to surrender. I wanted to. That was all I wanted.

That was all I wanted?

Maybe not. Maybe I wanted more.

I feel childish when my mind screams, IT'S NOT FAIR!

No, it's not fair. He uninvited me to his birthday party as a playground power play.

He seemed so determined to have me. So much so that I thought he might even be able to overlook my physicality. I didn't even get the chance to find out, before he decided to stomp all over this.

And what for? Why? Why all the effort, all his energy?

Obviously he is giving up, throwing in the towel. Did he decide that I wasn't worth any of his time, any longer?

Last night, before the party, he kissed me like I was his salvation. I thought, in that moment, that there was no stopping us. That we could overcome the steepest odds, just to be able to touch each other. It felt real… honest. Like so much of his candor, and his observations and his occasional bemused expression. It felt right.

And then I pushed him away. Is that what caused this? Is he just done waiting? Is he just… bored with me… already?

I just don't understand him at all.

I haven't even told him yet, and somehow… somehow, I'm fairly sure he still doesn't know.

Is this just a big game? Was none of it real, none of it? Was all of it just a joke?

Is this what I am, here? A joke?

The thought makes me sick. Makes me hurt anew. Makes me distrustful of myself and my instincts, for all the moments I thought maybe he actually liked me.

But he can't. He can't possibly care… and hurt me like this. Maybe he doesn't know how much he could hurt me. Maybe he doesn't understand that I could be hurt, because he can't be. Maybe he really does just use people, not feeling anything. Moving through his life like an automaton.

Maybe he just seizes whatever opportunities present themselves, and I wasn't presenting fast enough.

Maybe he just unquestioningly does whatever drug, whatever woman is in front of him at the moment.

Maybe he is a boy, a child, who is hiding behind sex and drugs.

Maybe he is just a fucking asshole.

Maybe someone needs to fucking do something.

Maybe someone needs to teach him how to play nice.

I actually laugh at myself. Out loud. It feels flat and sarcastic. What, Bella? You think you are the person to do that?

Maybe I am exactly the person to do that.

Because in games like this, games without rules, without boundary lines... everything is a weapon.

Everything.

Fuck him. He wants to hurt me? I'm going to hurt him back.

...

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I am a fucking warrior on Monday morning. I don't need power music. I don't need pep-talks. I have a purpose. It's clear, it's defined, and it's not very nice.

And it's going to take every ounce of courage I possess.

Good. Fuck the comfort zone. I've burned it... I've totaled it. I've destroyed it. I've stepped outside of it and looked in, embarrassed for myself for hiding in there for so long.

I've considered, and reasoned, and come to the conclusion that I've got absolutely nothing to lose. I can do nothing to change the fact that we work in the same building and he's an asshole. I have to deal with it all somehow, and as cliché as it may be, sometimes, the best defense is a good offense.

I'm going to give one hundred and ten fucking percent.

I'm going to use bad sports clichés ad nauseum.

My hair is down, flowing like a dark banner in my wake as I storm towards Allstate. Edward is here. His douchey little car is in the lot. He's here, and he owes me money.

For those about to rock… we salute you.

I push open the heavy door, and it clicks shut behind me. I can hear Emmett in his office. I see the slit of light splaying out from the crack under Edward's door. It grows as the door swings inward and there he is.

Another Edward, standing in another doorway. A composed, perfect Edward, saying my name like we're strangers again.

"Bella."

We are back to cool detachment. Fine. That works for me.

"Edward." My tone is austere, my face is too.

"Are you here for Jane's check?" he asks, like he isn't a monkey with an out of control sex drive.

"I am," I respond, like I'm not a woman scorned with an agenda.

He turns back towards his office and I follow him in. He gestures to the chair and I sit. I keep my eyes on him. I keep my expression neutral as he pulls his checkbook out of his drawer, clicks his pen into action and starts scrawling out the balance due in black ink. I watch.

He is all refined fakery when he looks up at me. When he proceeds to talk down to me. "I want to thank you. You did an excellent job Saturday night. My guests were very satisfied."

This fucking man. He doesn't even look abashed. He doesn't look contrite in even the smallest measure. In fact, I'm fairly certain he chose those words on purpose. His guests were fucking SATISFIED?

"I know. I heard her coming," I say.

I meet his harsh gaze. I know mine blazes.

I relax, letting my head sway slightly on my neck, my lips parting as I feel my hot blush climbing my chest, my neck, up into my cheeks. I roll my eyes back and flutter my lashes.

I give him a show. A show with sound. I mimic some of Irina's choicest lines from Saturday night.

"Oh yes, Edward _please_," I beg. "Fuck me harder. Oh God. Yes. Yes. Yesssssssss. I'm coming. Oh. Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh Edward. Pound me with your cock. Oh. Oh. Oh."

I bounce in my chair a little and give him my best pornstar-imitation, all bedroom eyes and pouty mouth, before abruptly erasing it with seriousness and accusation. Then I put on a smile of sweetest congratulation. "_That_ girl can fake an orgasm. Or twelve, apparently."

Edward looks like he could climb over the desk and throttle me. His mouth is slightly agape and his cheeks are flying the red flag of a blush. It's something I never thought I would see. Ever.

_Ho-ho-ho. Now I have a machine gun. _

I stand, pluck the check from his still fingers, and lean in close. "Your face is red," I tell him.

And then I leave.

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>

**.**

**.**

**.**

**A/N: Need to talk? Vent here: facebook. com/groups/ 357616267625752/**

**I will be hiding. :D**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. The plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended.****

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

* * *

><p>If you think you've won, you've never seen me change the game that we have been playing.<br>I've seen diamonds cut through harder men, than you yourself, but if you must pretend - you may meet your end.  
>Arm yourself because no one else here will save you...<p>

~You Know My Name by Chris Cornell

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>My phone is ringing.<p>

The shrill chirp is all there is.

And that chair.

The chair that held her warm body a mere half-second ago.

My phone trills again and goes silent just as Emmett appears in my open doorway. He is speaking before he even sets his eyes on me. "Yo, Ed-man. Not here, dude. We have-" I can only imagine what I must look like, because he goes silent when he sees my face.

When he sees I haven't been getting Bella Swan off in my office during business hours; when he sees my hand still holding the pen I used to write her check, my checkbook lying open on the blotter.

I look up at him, through him, seeing myself reflected in his eyes. My bewilderment, my lust, my shame. My fear.

His brow furrows as his head cocks to the side. "Was that – Bella, from next door?"

I feel my head shaking. It should be a nod, but it's not. It's shaking, trying to clear away this heavy atmosphere clinging to me on this stiff neck. Attempting to break my astonishment and my disorientation.

"Huh." He seems almost as perplexed as I feel. I think he's going to ask me what the fuck I did now, but what he asks is, "You okay?"

I don't think so. But I nod. He disappears and I am again staring at the recently vacated chair, my mind a blur. I distinctly recall the first time she sat in it, her nerves obviously frayed, her eyes shadowed, her face worried. Because a thousand dollars in damages means something to Bella. A huge hit to her income. I didn't know then how hard she works, how much she works.

I remember being fascinated by the blush that stained her face as she watched me. Fascinated, and a little sorry for her.

I remember wondering if her chest was flushed too.

I remember telling her that her face was red and the snide expression she gave me.

It seems like so long ago. It seems like a different person interacting with her. Not this person sitting here. I remember thinking I could get in her pants inside of a week and why bother.

What changed? When did her blush make the transition from uncomfortably embarrassing to uncomfortably erotic? When did the hollow at her throat become a place I want to press my fingers? When did the curve of her shoulders and the delicate bend of her neck become different than that of any other woman?

When did all the pieces of her become so precious to me?

Her hands aren't made up of carpals and metacarpals, fingers, knuckles, nails. They are her touch.

Her feet are her motive energy, her arms are her embrace, her body is a shelter.

Her rhythm is her soul, her eyes are her heart - brave and on display.

When did Bella cease to be a collection of parts I could use and become a whole person, wholly exceptional? Special.

She was so indifferent to me for so long.

I think I noticed her smile first, that day in her office, when she laughed and told me she didn't hit Debbie Kaimana's car. Then it was her scent. She smelled so good. Every time she was near me, it was like her temperature would rise, heating her scent and sending it out like a smoke signal. Like how you know when someone in your neighborhood is bar-b-quing, even if they are blocks away.

I began to wonder if she would blush at my touch, and what her eyes would look like rolled back in her head, her toes curled into little claws, her spine arching with the force of her pleasure.

I know what it looks like now.

I can feel her through the thin barriers of the walls that separate us, quietly fuming in her office.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. A million times, I'm sorry.

But it had to be done.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Find that thing that keeps the panic at bay.

When I close my eyes, all I see is her face. Her laughing eyes, muted in that moment when I escaped the bedroom and saw her there. How they changed. How they shared my pain as she reached for me. Her silent statement that it didn't matter what I had just done, she would still hold me if I needed her to.

Is it her empathy that makes her different? Was it her selfless compassion in that moment that showed me just how different she is? That she feels suffering deeply, as I do?

Standing there, I didn't want any part of me to touch her. I remember thinking I was coated in the glue of Irina's easy body. That Bella would get entangled in it, like a web comprised of every other woman I've ever fucked.

So I told her to stay away.

My lifetime of pain in that one sentence. All of it reflected in her face. Her heartbreak. All over her fucking face, echoed now inside me. Persistently reminding me that I'm a fucking shit.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, pushing until it hurts. Until my eyes feel compressed and angry, until all the capillaries of my eyelids become a rage of red, blocking out the kaleidoscope of her face. Her face when she sings with all her tentative courage, when she uses disco-force, when she is tired, when she is determined, when she works… when she smiles, when she sleeps, when I turn her into my prey with a look, when I feast on her with my mouth. Her face in all those moments, and now… at the center, her face when she mocks me. When she shames me with my own behavior.

I feel cheated in so many ways. Like I've seen her climax without getting to participate. Like I've handed her the tool with which she can torment me any time she chooses. Like I've created the tool I can torment myself with. Like I've smashed the salvation I could have had with her.

Like I've created a whole new arena of shit I will have to get through each day.

I knew I could feel anger and lust and ego and self-recrimination all at one time. I didn't know I could also feel admiration.

Is this what it's like? Have I already integrated who she is into me to the point where I am proud of her in this moment? Proud of her grit and her creativity, her fire, her resolve, her defiant fearlessness? And envious… envious of all that she is and her effortless existence. Proud and rock-hard, hating myself, not wanting to stop listening to the sounds she made, not wanting to hear her keep making them.

Not wanting to hear, ever again, any other woman cry for me like that. Knowing that I will. Knowing that I can't change.

Not wanting to hear Bella do it the way that she did, in imitation of a woman that means nothing to me. Not wanting it and wanting to make it real. Wanting to make it genuine. Not being able to.

Because turning her intense individuality into something shared requires a different kind of give and take. I want to have her, but whatever I take needs to be given back. I have no give in me.

Paralyzed here, stuck, hateful and lustful and foolish.

I spent yesterday torturing myself with all her possible reactions. Her sulking or screaming at me. Her slapping my face. Her ignoring me. I feared all of them. I prepared myself for the onslaught of however she chose to deal with it.

I wasn't ready. Not for that.

Not to see her like that. Her face a different construct of her hot determination. My cock, a divining rod showing me what I want most, ignoring my simultaneous shame. How I throbbed in that moment, while wanting to disown everything that I am. Disgusted with myself, while still imagining myself encased within her, imagining her undulating atop me.

The last week has felt like a marathon. I'm exhausted from the daily battle of eat, drink, dream, breathe, fighting the invasion of her into my every moment. Bella, Bella, Bella.

Then Saturday, something in me made a choice. It started as an experiment, an opportunity to contain her within my walls, to watch her work and see if I couldn't reconnect with the casual interest I felt at the beginning. The start of all of this, when she flared indignantly and asked me if I was human, when I decided to prod her by taking her parking spot, just to see what I got. I just needed to get back to THAT, and away from how right it felt to carry her to her bed, to wake to her comfort. To help myself reassert distance and just see… if I even could. I just wanted to see.

And then, somewhere, I lost it.

Somewhere between her dark hair and Irina's. Somewhere tangled in Bella's watchful dark eyes. Somewhere after she pushed me away. Somewhere before I pushed back.

Pushing her away. It all made sense, in that fucked up little moment. That moment where I understood that Bella should want nothing to do with someone like me. That I could make it so, that I could create a force-field that would absolutely keep her out. I could construct a wall of fucking in a new way. I could use that wall, I could build it around me. To protect her.

Whatever I am, all of me, is for… To protect her.

Now, in the light of this day… I am not sure I need to protect Bella from anything. And in this moment, in this still quiet moment, she is all that I want. My understanding of my own evil, my malevolence, has faded into the sorrowful resignation of telling myself that this is still better. That I have nothing to offer. That Bella deserves more than this greedy, selfish man.

She is the fucking tree, the giving tree, and I am not going to wear her down to a stump for me to sit on. I might have scraped the bark of her protective encasing, but only that. She can move on and give her generous self to someone worthy.

I tell myself this now, but all I want to do is take it all back.

All I want to do is reach backwards, a mere forty-eight hours, and give myself the opportunity to ignore Irina and her salacious whispers. I only blurrily remember all the words she used to suggest that she could occupy my whole night with her body. I only vaguely remember the moment when I thought that would be a good idea.

It was a good idea.

It was an awful idea, but it was… well, it's what I've done.

I itch to chase after Bella and fling open the door to her office. I want to go to my knees. I want to shower her with all the cliché gifts of my remorse. I want to physically place her upon the pedestal and tell her that she lives there. I want to open my chest and show her how my heart beats differently because of her. I want to solemnly swear that I will never, ever hurt her like that again. I want to do all that and more. I want to explain all my fucked up logic to her and have her accept it. Have her accept what I have to give, which is nothing. A big, empty nothing… but all of it for her.

But I won't. She will get over this. And maybe, in time, so will I.

I clear my throat and try to see my desk. I try to make sense of the claim filling my computer screen. This office and this keyboard and this fucking phone that is ringing again. None of it matters.

The phone display says State Farm.

Great.

I pick up the receiver and give my hateful line, and as soon as I hear the Scottish accent on the other end, I know what he wants. He wants Bella.

I should have let it go to voicemail. We exchange good mornings and he cuts right to the proverbial chase.

"So, that gerrl, the one who was working at your party, Saturday night. Bella. Do you remember her?"

Do I fucking _remember_ her?

When am I not fucking _remembering_ Bella Swan?

"Yes, what about her?"

"Weeel. I was thinking of calling her. I asked Rosie, and she said I should call you, ferrrst. You might have some claim to her?"

"Rose is mistaken."

"Ahhh aye. That's what I thought. I thought it was unlikely, considering how she was werrking for ye, and all."

Right. Because a decent man doesn't indenture his woman to him, doesn't make her wait on his guests. Because a man like Alec would never treat his woman that way. He would never subject her to the sounds of his intoxicated rutting with a tweaked out floozy. He would have a calm grown up discussion with her about… I don't know. Boundaries or some shit. I wonder exactly how Alec _would_ treat a woman and the memory of Bella's faked climax fills my mind. Her fingers gripping the chair, bracing herself against her advancing blush as it found her face and flooded it. Her gripping his back, the two of them together, the thought of it, makes me want to put my fist through something. Like his face.

"Mmhmm."

"So, you don't mind, then?"

Can he hear how my teeth are gritted in anger when I say, "No. I don't mind."

"Awesome."

Awesome.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I can't go home. I hate being there. Now, in a new and completely encompassing way.

I lock up the suite and make my way out of the building. It's late. The hallway is dim, lit only by the emergency lighting that comes on after eight p.m. The tedium and length of this day is still better than the aftermath that is my condo. I am the aftermath, really. The condo is fine. Bella left it pristine.

Speaking of.

She just came out of the bathroom down the hall and is walking towards the exit. I don't think she saw me. I am considering slowing my pace when she whirls around. Her hair fans out and comes to rest over one shoulder.

I stop and we stare at one another. Her face is peaceful. Her body is that light tension that accompanies lift off. And then she is walking towards me. I take an immediate step back and she laughs, coming to a stop directly in front of me. Her chin tilted up, her face hiding nothing.

My throat feels tight, so I clear it. "Bella."

"Edward."

"You're working late."

"As are you."

I nod.

"Do you want to get dinner?"

What the fuck? I lift a brow and before I've had time to consider what my appropriate response to this invitation should be, I ask, "With you?"

God, my tone is so ugly. Good. Her lips purse as she pulls them into her mouth. Her quick blink shows me her surprise. But, as usual, she recovers fast. I can tell she is contemplating everything. Our whole history, Saturday, my face, my tone, this moment, as she tilts her beautiful head gently to the side and softly says, "Scores of women, so many you can't count them all, but not me?"

I am trying, really trying, to remember any of them as I look into her questioning eyes.

She is studying my face. I don't know what she is looking for, what she wants from me. But she isn't going to find it here. "Did you do that, did you do Irina…? Did you do her on purpose, Edward?"

I am an ice cold mask. "I don't know what you mean."

She looks at me a moment longer, her gaze darting between my eyes. Searching. Then she turns, not even saying good night to me, as she strides purposefully to the door. I stand watching it slowly close behind her.

I need oblivion. I need distraction. Saliva gathers in my mouth, anticipating this evening's alcohol. I need a whiskey and a woman.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I drag myself out of bed the next morning and into a long, wickedly hot shower. My stomach is cinched up, right against my uvula, and I gag while brushing my teeth. I run my fingers over my eyebrows, assuming that they cooperate. My mirror reflects thousands of me, splintering my face into abrupt pieces. I only slightly remember the moment of impact when I drove my fist into my own reflection last night. My whole left hand aches, the knuckles particularly, which are stiff and bloodied.

I see myself all the time. Everywhere I go. I've never so acutely seen all the ways I've failed myself, as I did last night.

My search was comical, my apathy appalling. There is nothing out there, in those exotic nightclubs that I want anymore. My phone is full of women I will never call again.

My condo houses porn full of pictures that all dissolve into one girl.

One girl was all I thought I would ever need. Long ago, before I became… this. Before my reflection started showing me just how much I've fucked myself.

Just how right Alice is.

Somewhere along the line, I changed.

I just need to get through this day. And then tomorrow. And this week. It's all baby steps moving me through the time it takes to get past this. To get beyond Bella Swan and this stupid fucking hole I dug for myself.

I rub pomade in my hair and quickly knot my tie, folding down the collar of my shirt. This suit is a different kind of armor, an armor about as impervious to bullets as any Marine issue variety.

This coat and tie, because of their price or their quality, separates me from others, makes them hesitant to touch me, makes them understand their place without my having to tell them. Their place apart from me.

It occurs to me that Emmett's suit doesn't have that same power. His fits him like comfortable pajamas, making him easy to trust, reliable. His enhances the dependable nature of his smile and his can-do attitude.

These clothes only have the power I give to them.

And the power I give to anything is the power of discontented destruction.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

* * *

><p>***BPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>When I push in the door to my office and flip on the light, my immediate thought is that the incredible arrangement of tropical flowers on my desk is from Edward. But it's not. My heart falls as I open the card and see a tidy little endearment, written by the florist on Alec's behalf.<p>

I don't know how I feel about this.

I spend the morning thinking about Edward and this other man who I don't know. I don't know him, but he seemed really nice. I can't help but contrast this huge bouquet with the single blue rose that Edward gifted me. His sly way of slipping it into my lunch bag, not caring if the flower was damaged or crushed, so different from this careful ornamentation now decorating my office.

Maybe I should cut my losses and start afresh. Maybe the purpose of all of this, in the long run, was to lead me to that Christmas party and this kind Scot who kisses hands and…

And maybe… maybe a few months ago I would take the chance.

And maybe now, today, I SHOULD take the chance. But that 'maybe', if I am being honest, feels like I won't.

I feel tainted, but not by Alec. Not in the way that can be wiped off on a lapel by a seemingly jealous paramour. I feel tainted inside, like my insides match my outsides. I am not suitable for eating. Not right now.

I have too much anger, too much confusion… and I have too much self-pity. I wish I didn't. I hate how I feel right now and I wish I could channel everything I have into directing that hate at Edward Cullen.

But I can't.

I don't know how I can feel heartache this bad if there wasn't something real between us. I shake my head at myself again. Again and again. There is nothing real with that man. It's all just games.

But, I don't know how to box up this disappointment and walk away from it.

So I'm not going to.

I have to finish this before I can start something else. I have to purge it from my system. I think of Hobbes telling Calvin, "Until you stalk and overrun, you can't devour anyone."

And that is me right now.

I take my cell outside to the parking lot and dial the phone number in the card. I don't really want to have this conversation. Let's add it to the list of things I don't really want to do, but have to anyway. It rings on the other end several times before Alec's kind voice fills my ear.

"Alec, hey. It's Bella. Swan. From um…"

"Yes, Bella. I very distinctly rrremember you. From Edward Cullen's party."

"Yes. I got your flowers. They were such a surprise."

"Oh? Good. I'm so glad to hear it. I hope you will agree to have dinner with me?"

I am gnawing a hole in my lip. I feel like I should say yes to this person. I feel like a fool, saying no to someone who might not be a complete fuck-face. But I can't say yes. Not right now. I look up at Edward's window, the black window pane dark and disallowing in the weak winter sunlight.

"I can't. I'm sorry." I am rushing on before he can interrupt me or I can change my mind. "I want to, I'm just... I'm not in a good head-space right now to start a new relationship. Or, I'm sorry maybe that is presumptuous of me. I mean. I need… some time."

"How much time?"

"I don't really know. I'm sorry."

"Is it Edward Cullen? Because you shouldn't waste your energy on that lot, love."

This irks me. I'm not a child, and while he may be right, he has no fucking idea what my energy is best served doing.

"I'd rather not… discuss it. If you don't mind."

"I'm sorry Bella. That was out of line. Your business is yours. How about this. Why don't you hang on to my number, and call me, when you're ready. But, if I don't hear from you by say… Valentine's Day… I will be checking in. I really would like to get to know you. Is that fair?"

"Fair. Yes. Thank you, Alec. I appreciate your understanding. And thank you again, for the flowers, they're beautiful."

"You're very welcome, Bella."

I end the call and let out my breath. Glad that's over.

Alec's words stick with me, though, about wasting my energy. But it's not about that. It's not about spending energy on Edward Cullen. It's about spending the energy on myself, and not starting something with someone while I am still… recovering… for lack of a better word. I'm still figuring out how I move forward.

Edward unlocked something in me. I don't know if it is just a mirror of his rage, a well of my own tamped anger being tapped, or just some psychosis in me born of his betrayal. I am on a road that doesn't make sense. I may be driving through fog directly into a wall, but I don't care. This self-destruct sequence has already been initiated.

And I am counting down.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I'm at Northgate mall, at a loss for what to buy anybody this year. I pick up items, turn them over, find the price and put them back. My Christmas gift buying has been negligent so far. Usually I get it all done before December starts. This year, not so much.

Leah and Sam are taken care of. I got them dragon pendants that fit together into a yin-yang, or 69, depending on how you look at it. Leah will see the yin-yang. Sam will see two dragons getting kinky.

The symbolism of it is perfect. They complement each other so well.

Jasper is getting an original Chewbacca action figure that I found in a thrift store months ago. Still in the box, it's collecting dust in my closet. I don't know if he has one already, and if he does, another one can't hurt, considering how expensive it was.

My dad… and Sue… and Seth… I just can't think of anything.

And my boss. And Jane.

I've bought several things for Jake. New leash and collar, big cedar bed which he will never lay on, gourmet organic dog-chews.

And then there is Alice, who probably just goes out and buys herself whatever she needs.

I pick up a spa-bath kit with rock salts and scrub brushes and check the price. I set it back down. Nothing says I have no idea what to get you like bubble-fucking-bath.

I feel worn down and uncreative. I hate the thought of getting trite little gifts for the people I love, just because I have to. I want a gift that says I put thought and effort into it, and I have very little thought and effort right now.

And also Edward. Money can't buy what he needs for Christmas. He needs his heart to grow three sizes in one day, but I don't think that actually happens. I need my tit to grow back. That isn't happening either.

I need my eyes to stop welling up in the middle of fucking Macy's.

I need Elvis's Blue Christmas to stop following me around, every-fucking-where I go.

I pass a bin of mark-down menswear and think that maybe I will get him socks. Maybe I will get him a swift kick in the nuts. Maybe I will just get him nothing and let this all go. He obviously wants nothing to do with me. He is obviously sending me a very clear message to fuck off.

And I should…

And I will.

I'm going to test him first though.

My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. It's Jane. She asks me if I've decided about New Years Eve. She tells me Carlisle is doing a Monte Carlo thing. Gambling and Bond. She tells me that he requested me, if I was available. And am I?

I tell her to let me call her back this weekend with my answer.

I think about it while I look at ties and tie clips. While I torture myself with the idea of having a husband to shop for every year. Someone sharing my small space, my bed, my life. Someone I could put my energy into, my love. Someone to wake up with on Christmas morning and say "Merry Christmas" to… someone to nudge gently, waking him softly with a mug of coffee and his first gift of the day.

The someone in these fantasies looks suspiciously like Edward Cullen. Still. Despite everything.

Stupid girl, I tell myself. For the millionth time. Today.

A New Year's Eve party… gambling and Bond. Do these people just party all the time? I guess I could work it. I guess I could spend New Years Eve making money instead of whatever non-plans I have at this point. But I don't really want to work this event. I want to go to this event.

I stare at my phone. It feels heavy in my hand. It feels like I should put it back in my pocket. But that is not what I do. I call Alice.

I ask for an invite.

She grills me. "Why are you asking me? Why not Edward?" I sigh. I am about to answer when she says, "Oh fuck, Bella. What did he do?"

"Nothing Alice. Nothing. Okay? I just… don't think he is going to invite me… and I'd like to come." I run my free hand over the lapel of a crisp charcoal suit while we talk.

The other end of the line is silent. I can almost hear the wheels in Alice's head spinning. My mouth is opening to tell her to forget the whole thing when she speaks again, in a quiet voice this time.

"If Edward isn't going to invite you, Bella, I'm sorry, but… I don't think that I should either. I'm sorry."

She really does sound sorry.

Fine.

Time for the big guns. I duck out of the shopping area into a quiet corner and speak earnestly into my phone. "Look, Alice. You fucked with my life. I know why you had Jasper give me those tags and it worked. You want me to care for your brother, regardless of whether or not he cares for me – guess what? Mission accomplished. You were right, he pushes people away. Hard. This is me pushing him back. You owe me. You owe me an invite if I ask you for it. I am asking you for it."

More silence.

I am going to cry… right here in this fucking store. In front of all these strangers who will look at me and my ridiculousness. I lock my jaw and think about Barry Bonds breaking the homerun record. How his son met him at the plate… this is _not_ helping.

I think of how I almost caught one of Danny Carey's drumsticks when I was ten years old. I touched it, and it ricocheted off my hand. My mom squeezed my calf, reaching up to where I sat on Phil's shoulders, and told me she knew he was throwing it to me.

Still not working.

"How did you know about the party?" Alice asks.

"Jane asked me to work it."

"So… you can be there either way?"

"I can. But I would like to come as a guest and not a peon."

Another long pause stretches between us. Her voice is overly cordial when she finally speaks, "Okay Bella. Please come as my guest."

"Thank you, Alice."

"Can I tell him that you will be there, or does this favor extend to my silence?"

"It's up to you. I'm not going to ask for anything else."

"Good."

I hang up the phone and proceed to feel like a complete asshole.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Every morning of this week starts with power music. The initial catalyst that Monday was, that intense explosion of self-righteous energy has faded, leaving me to seek artificial boosts from music. And not just to give me the nerve to face Edward Cullen, but to take the edge off my cynicism. To bring color back to my skies and my trees, to bring flavor back to my tongue. To bring authenticity to my smile, to take the weight from my face.

Pulling into my parking lot is such a simple act of my life, done daily. It used to just be the beginning of my work day. Then, it was my first opportunity to see Edward. Now, it's the beginning of my façade.

I slide out of the Rodeo and unhook my iPod, shoving it into my bag, slamming the heavy creaking door and hurrying across the lot. It's cold today, an arctic wind is nipping at all my exposed skin.

The hallway is enclosed and warm and it relaxes me a bit, soothing my jittery jaw and all the other muscles clenched against the cold.

And there is Edward, in burnt umber, walking towards me. This color makes his eyes and hair positively blaze, like a match has been set to him. But it's not just that… it's something pent up and vibrant, something he surges with in his every movement.

The look on his face tells me he wants to do an about-face and head the other way. I know that feeling. Well, actually.

He doesn't, though. We slowly close the distance between us, his gaze focused straight ahead of him like I don't exist. I wonder if he will even greet me this morning. I stay to my right, he stays to his, and I notice his left hand has tape across the knuckles, like a boxer. Like a prize fighter. As I pass him I reach my hand out and slide my fingers over it, seeking both the electricity his body conducts, and his reaction to my gesture. I am past him when I feel his motion stop. When I feel his eyes on my back.

I don't turn.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>This week. Could be one of the worse weeks of my life.<p>

Every day is a boot camp. Every day is an endurance run. Every day starts with self loathing and ends in a bottle. Every day I see Bella, either in the hallway, the break room, the parking lot... or in my office. Like now, when she sets a cup of coffee on my desk, flashing me her incredible smile. Like nothing's nothing.

Like nothing at all happened. Like she isn't the air that I refuse to breathe.

After she breezes out Alice is in my office, closing the door softly and shooting me a look that requires no words. _How could you?_

I just shake my head at her and go back to the paperwork spread across my desk. So she says it out loud. "What the fuck did you do?"

Come again?

I thought for sure Bella had told Jasper, given the look he unleashed at me in the break room yesterday, or even Alice directly, by this time; but Alice's face tells me that she has no idea how low I've descended.

"Guess what, Al?"

Her jaw skews to one side and she shakes her head. "You don't want to talk about it?"

"Bingo."

Then she gets down in my face, her body leaning forward, one hand pressed into the desk, as she tells me that she's had enough of my shit. That I need to get over myself, and my past, and stop fucking around. That I am going to end up dead, or worse. And how do I feel knowing that I am causing pain to others. How the Edward she loves would never have done whatever I did to Bella. Because she just knows me and while she doesn't know exactly what I did, she knows that it was fucked. Because everything I touch turns to shit.

I let her rail at me. I nod. I agree with her. Even when she tells me I need therapy - for the millionth time. Her mouth falls open when I say, "Yes."

And then she treats me with such care and gentility, as if her continued shrew-like behavior would cause the realization to dissolve. She asks me if I want the number for her therapist and I let her know that I already have someone. That I have my introductory appointment next week.

And then, she fucking cries.

She hugs me like she did when I got back from the Middle East. With all the emotion of my coming home a man and not a corpse.

"Alice, I love you. Now get out of my office."

And she does.

I am left alone with my work and this perfectly creamed coffee that Bella placed humbly on my desk.

Something is off here and I can't put my finger on it. When I passed her in the hall yesterday and she greeted me with a caress across my damaged hand, like she knew it was for her. When I brushed past her, her face was a world of secret understanding, like we share some kind of common intrigue.

She's playing some kind of game. This is not the Bella Swan that stood wilting in the wake of my performance last Saturday. This is not a Bella Swan I've seen.

Vengeful?

No... But... it's something like that. Damaged and trying to hide it.

I hate to see the sun slowly moving towards the horizon outside my window. I don't want to go home. Again. Always. Always the horrible emptiness of the evening to be filled, to be squandered between a pair of willing legs. I failed earlier and every day this week, but tonight I absolutely cannot go home. I absolutely cannot face myself, even if I'm facing shards.

I lock up the office. Olympian Real Estate is quiet, the halls are dark. The parking lot is empty, completely. Of course. It's Friday and most people are anxious to begin the weekend.

I roar out of the parking lot and let the Jag point itself towards my destination of choice. I end up at Virago, throwing the keys to a valet and letting the pulse of industrial remixed pop-rock pull me inside.

Virago always reminds me of Riley and his obsession with falconry. He would talk forever about birds of prey. He would fill our night watch with tales of kings and queens, raj's and empresses, and their birds.

Apparently, hawks return to the arm of the falconer because it's a successful perch. It is not personal, at all. There is no attachment between bird and man outside of the hunt. If a hawk has luck from a certain branch or post, they will always come back to it.

He told me once that some birds often mate for life. Storks... penguins... swans.

Virago is my successful perch. I have luck here. Except the other day, when everything around me looked like bleak nothing. Like cheap easy nothing. Like me. I saw myself everywhere.

Tonight I go in with a new awareness. Fuck all this. I don't care who she is or why she's here. Someone is here for me. Someone is a mark. In this club full of desperation and body odor, sticky floors and dark paneled walls you wouldn't want to see in the light of day, some girl is going to be my distraction.

It's dark inside with blue lights glowing, surging, skittering off every surface. Artificial fog clings to the ceilings, the walls, the cages and platforms where women gyrate in time with remixed Eminem, Marilyn Manson, The Prodigy and Lady Gaga. Confused energetic music, the soundtrack to an invitation for violent sexual activity. The dance floor is crowded with undulating bodies, people getting as close to each other as society allows, their clothing doing little to mask the tension and relief being sought with every pelvic thrust. Huge, low cut lounges curl into all the little nooks of the building and are running over with bachelor parties. Groups of guys with fat wallets trying to lure in the bachelorettes, all of whom get corralled the moment they enter. Drinks are free for any girl accompanying a bride-to-be, provided she likes to roll the dice.

The bouncers know me. They let me pass and don't bother checking my ID. I head to one of eight bartenders doing double time and order a drink, then find a seat.

I never have to put much effort into this. They come to me. They always come to me.

My eyes wander, my mind wanders. I wonder exactly when I crossed the line, when I became this man. This man who draws pussy to him without trying. It's not my looks, not them alone. It's my discontent. It's my dissatisfaction. It's my not giving a shit. They sense it. Women sense it... if I had known this when I was in high school, maybe I would have gotten laid. Or had a girlfriend.

When I was sweet and vestal I got nothing.

I was still lost then… so it can't be that.

It must, absolutely, be my anger.

Why do women want this? What part of my torment appeals to them? What part of my fucked off outlook gives them satisfaction? There is no satisfaction in this. There is only a downward spiral into the grave.

It's overdue. It's long overdue. My number came up ages ago. It's all borrowed time now. It's all an extension of this afterlife that doesn't mean shit.

Bella would consider it a gift.

I'm not going to think about Bella.

And I am not going to think about the war.

I'm not going to think about Carlisle or Liz, or my ex-step-mother Fiona, or Rosalie, or Emmett...

Fucking golden child, Emmett. Fucking prodigal son. So perfect it's a bad cliché. Football scholarship all the way. All the way to a broken vertebrae in his neck. All the way to being an insurance broker and not giving a fuck because he is just that way. Because he doesn't look back... because he has the self assurance granted him by knowing his place in the world. By being naturally stronger and bigger than the other guy. By being undefeatable physically and indefatigable in spirit. He smiles _all_ the time. Even in the hospital when they told him he would never play professional ball. He said good, he didn't want to anyway.

People are always drawn to Emmett and his good nature. His charisma. His talent. His ease of manner.

Emmett would never get yanked from his bunk in the silent night, wrapped in a blanket, and shoved in a supply closet while three other recruits beat the shit out of him. Or five, depending on the day, depending on the shit that came out of my mouth. Emmett would never get a face full of mud or spit. I don't think anyone would dare call Emmett a faggot.

Is it too fucking Freudian to say that I spend my life proving that I'm not gay? That I'm not the meek sissy I used to be?

Proving it to Fiona and Emmett's jock friends and my father. Always proving something to my fucking father. But he never sees. He saw Emmett, he saw Alice, he saw me when I stood next to them.

Alice would argue that I've never been a sissy. That having a tender heart doesn't make you any less a man.

We had a bird fly into our window once. Thunk. I will never forget that sound. Alice always reminds me that it was me who dragged her outside to see if it needed help. Me who cried at the sight of its broken, little body in the gravel. She throws this day in my face all the time. This day and so many others.

I tell myself I am done rehashing my childhood... full of disdainful looks and recriminating hands. Hands that take your things from you... hands that give your secret toys to Alice, mouths that tell you to go play outside with the other boys.

People who don't understand you at all.

People who laugh at you when you ask for stupid shit for Christmas. Since I was eight I just open what they give me and say thank you. Then Alice and I would escape to our clubhouse and play, free of scrutiny. Games where we could be anything we wanted to be. She was so little then.

People who start to tip-toe around you because you are becoming quietly volatile.

People who stop talking to you at the dinner table because they don't like listening to you challenge every fucking thing anybody says.

I feel like I've been conditioned to this life.

By my family and church, school, the military, the delusion of heroism. My absolute misunderstanding of war, of culture, of terrorism and casualties, fighting for a cause, dying for something you've come to realize is evil. Killing. Looking at yourself in the mirror and knowing that yes, you can kill a person. You can kill a human being. Realizing that you know what it costs to be able to do that. It costs everything you are.

Fuck it all. Fuck my family and trying. I just don't care.

Bella thinks she is the bottom rung. Wrong.

The thrum of the music has become steady white noise, bubbling with this intoxication in my blood, and I realize that I've been watching one girl in particular.

An incredible vixen dancing in a cage across the room. Her hair is so fine and blonde it could be white. Hair like moonshine cut in a Cleopatra bob...hair like all the stars in the sky. It contrasts against the deep color of her tattoos, vague at this dark distance - indistinct - but distinctly reminiscent of another girl I know. Long legs, too. Shapely legs in tall go-go boots. The gap between her boots and her short-ass black shorts is so much fucking flesh. Toned legs up to her fucking neck. And something that always gets me. Always. A white wife-beater over a black bra.

_So... give... me... nothing... just... feel. And now a sheep will follow._

I watch her... she is in her own little world. A world of music and motion, sound and smoke. This is the girl I want. I want to violate her in a way I don't usually violate anyone. I want to take her home and pretend she is someone else. I wish she was a brunette, but that would be too perfect.

_God told me... I've already got the life... oh, I say..._

I find Sal lingering by the DJ and hand him a wad of cash. I tell him I want that girl, and I point, to find my table when she takes a break. He gives me a wary look, but he tells me he will pass along my request. He tells me that Vic will be watching. I tell him I just want to talk to her.

I get another drink and find my dark corner table again. I watch her. I let my eyes skim the crowd, but they always come back to her.

God, the girl can go. I'm returning to my table with my fourth drink when I notice there is a voluptuous brunette dancing in her cage now. But there is no appeal. I wanted a brunette, I thought... but what I really want... is all that colored skin. All that slender body and intrinsic rhythm.

And then I catch sight of her moving through the crowd on the dance floor below. Her hair stands out, her inked shoulders tucking this way and that as she navigates through the throng. She is headed towards where I sit, and my spine tightens a bit. I have never ever been attracted to a girl with so many tattoos. Before Bella - I would never even have considered it. I usually prefer creamy unblemished skin and I know it will never be that way again.

No… not never. I just have to exorcise some demons.

I watch her legs as she climbs a short flight of metal stairs and turns in my direction. I let my eyes drift up, lingering on the flare of her hips, how her waist nips in, and then up over her small breasts to her collarbone. And the words inked there, in familiar fluid script.

All I can hear in my head is Bella's voice. _Schism, by Tool._

The next thing I know my hands are full of all that moonbeam hair and Bella Swan is pulling a cap off her head, letting her dark damp hair fall around her face.

She sits across from me, crossing one beautiful leg over the other as she gives me nothing but poker face. "Edward."

I swallow. "Bella."

"So, Sal says you gave him a shitload of money to talk to me. You could have talked to me for free you know. You have my number, even if you never CALL it." Her eyes are accusatory. I know what she means by CALL. She means why the fuck do I fuck other women when I could be fucking her.

It's just not that simple.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Waiting for you."

I just stare at her.

"I followed you here the other day," she says, her tone matter-of-fact. "It's funny, because you frequent a very fortuitous club for me. Sal is Sam's uncle. I told him I wanted to dance in a cage and he told me I could. Pretty ironic, that. A swan dancing in a cage. Don't you think? It is so... apt." Her face has an edge to it. Like her voice.

"Do you do this often?"

"Have you ever seen me here before?"

"Never."

She leans in and I can smell her. Her heated skin, not determination this time, it's pure exertion that pinks her cheeks and neck. It's hours in motion that brings her blood right to the surface. Makes her hair steam and her eyes conspire against me.

"That's right. Never. Have you EVER paid Sal to bring you a dancer before?"

Never. Not once.

"I knew it was you."

"Liar."

"Bella, your body identifies itself. You can't hide under a wig."

"I can hide behind the blur of distance."

"Apparently not."

"Cut the bullshit, Edward. We both know the truth."

"Fine. I wanted the blonde dancer whose body looks like yours."

"So, you can use that cock indiscriminately on everyone except me, is that it?"

"I was trying to respect your space Bella. I thought... after last weekend... you might want it."

She rises easily to her feet and winds around the small table to straddle me. My hands can't help themselves. They reach for her to guide her into me as I feel all her heat come flush to my body. "Do I look like I want it?"

I don't want to acknowledge what she looks like she wants. She goes on. "It used to be your honesty and, yes, your looks, and your laugh… I don't know... now... I just want to ride the ride. Where do I insert my quarter?"

If I feel demeaned it's my own fault. "Coin-op-cock?"

She laughs. It's the same laugh, beautiful and genuine, but there is a bitterness about it now.

I know what pain looks like. It looks like Bella Swan and her pretending face.

She studies me. I'm pretty sure I still look fairly bewildered. Clutching at the small of her back doesn't anchor me any more to this spot. Any more to the reality of Bella telling me she wants a quick easy fuck.

There is no way I can fuck Bella Swan. There is no way I can hold her lithe decorated body against mine. There is no way I can touch her without intimacy. In every cell of this fucked up body is the urge to show her, not tell her. SHOW her how she makes me feel. My body would speak against my will.

"What, Edward? That little show with Irina wasn't just a preview? A quick little hors d'oeurve for me to savor?"

I cannot stand hearing that name on those lips. "Enough."

"No. Not enough."

She leans forward and lets her expressive mouth skim my ear. "You know… there's a theory I read once about why women are so much more vocal than men during sex. Did you know?"

I shake my head and her cheek finds mine, stilling me with slight adamant pressure. Her touch is like a radiant balm, and I press into it.

"Yeah, they're calling other participants to the gang-bang." Bella's mouth saying the word 'gang-bang' right into my brain yanks me to full attentiveness. I twitch beneath her.

"Hmm, I can feel that your indiscriminate cock likes this conversation... "

I slide my hands to her hips and push myself into her. "Maybe a little."

"Oh good. 'Cause... you know how the sounds of you two _fucking_ made me feel? Like rubbing one out in your bathroom… is that what you were _trying_ to make me feel?"

I have no words. I have no air.

"Is that what you feel, right now?" She slides her delicate hand between us and covers the bulge in my pants with it, squeezing gently. "Is that a foil wrapped cucumber in your pants or are you just happy to see me?"

Her thumb drags down along the rigid shaft and I feel myself surge underneath her touch. She brushes her lips across mine, her eyes watching my face intently, just a flat black in this light. I churn inside and before I can stop myself I've engulfed her mouth with mine. My own ardor rises as I recall her writhing in my chair, moaning and whimpering. The feel of her is driving me crazy, how it feels to touch her, how she is pressing the heat of her sex firmly against me. Scorching hot, thinly clad sex, so accessible. So easy. Her mouth tastes like cinnamon and Bella.

Damn her.

The imagery in my mind is powerful, inescapable. A greater aphrodisiac than this creature does not exist in my world.

I could push her bodily against the wall and be inside of her in under ten seconds.

Like Irina.

No. This is the opposite of what I wanted. I grip her by her arms and push her back from me.

She smirks, her mouth cynical and glistening. "No?"

I feel my breath coming, desperate and heavy. "No."

"You don't want to get high and fuck me in the parking lot?"

No.

It would never be fucking.

It would never be the cheap disposable exchange of basic animal need, like eating, like shitting. It could never be that, not with her.

And not in the parking lot.

I close my eyes. I breathe. I can feel her intense stare all over the sensitive skin of my face. I can hear her voice, persuasive, delicate despite the music thumping all around us.

"There are hundreds of women in this club Edward and you chose me. You want me," she says, her tone turning to mimicry, "Don't overcomplicate something simple." Again she uses my words against me.

But this isn't simple. Not for me.

Her eyes burn into me. "I've slept with two men in my life. You are number three. You can close your eyes and think of whomever you choose, but you said you would climb this ladder to the top and I'm holding you to it."

We stare at each other and she nods slowly. "Get used to the idea." And she climbs off my lap and disappears into the throng on the dance floor.

She doesn't return to the cage.

I stare at the wig on the table. I should've known. I should've known.

I did know... part of me knew. The part that was aroused. Like a fucking divining rod. And now it only points at that woman.

I am so fucked.

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><p><strong>High Fidelity<strong>

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**A/N: **

**Okay. So. Short and sweet. THANK YOU to Dragonfly336 and BelieveItOrnot - you both make this story way better. Like, tons better.**

**And thank YOU! **

**Yes... YOU! :D I wish I could respond to all my reviews. You guys blow my mind. Thank you. I hope you know how much I appreciate you. It's a lot. A big lot.**

**And... as usual, music is on my blog: ireenh. blogspot. com**

**Come play in our FB group: ****facebook. com/groups/ 357616267625752/**

**And finally - DH78 interviewed me. If you are interested, it will be posted tonight over at: Diamondheart78. blogspot. com**

**(all these links will only work if you remove the spaces I've stuck in there so FFn will let me post - PM me if you have difficulty)**

**Oh! P.S. - The theory about why women are more vocal than men during sex is one I read in _Sex At Dawn, The prehistoric origins of modern sexuality. _Just in case you wondered if I was totally Bee-Essing that. I'm not. ;)**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author.******

****No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.****

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><p><strong><strong>.<strong>**

****.****

****.****

Oh, you creep up like the clouds...  
>And you set my soul at ease.<br>Then you let your love abound...  
>And you bring me to my knees.<p>

~Shadowboxer by Fiona Apple

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><p>***BPOV***<p>

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><p>I have to get out of here.<p>

I have to get out of here.

I have to get away from me. From me and Edward. And how I feel right now. And these words still in my head. In the air between us. I have to get away from Virago and who I was while inside those walls.

I make a determined beeline to my car. For some reason I don't quite understand, I feel like Edward Cullen is chasing me. I'm not going to look over my shoulder. I'm going to get to my car and lock myself into it.

And then what?

Scream, maybe.

I get to the Rodeo and fumble trying to get the key into the lock, the metal edge missing the hole each time and scraping along the finish, reverberating against my teeth. I'm shaking like a leaf. I don't know if it's nerves or the cold.

Because it's fucking freezing out here.

I was hot and sweating in the dark, dank confines of that club... and the winter air just turned all the moisture clinging to me to frost.

My insides match my outsides.

And I'm half fucking naked.

And I forgot my mom's wig.

And now, I am going to fucking cry.

Again.

I thought I was done.

I manage to turn the key in the lock and haul myself into the car, turning the engine over quickly, cranking the heat all the way up. Then I look back. There are a few people loitering outside the entrance, smoking and laughing. But not Edward.

I pull out and wonder what I do now.

I had purpose just five minutes ago. Now, I don't.

Now, I feel like I have nothing.

Every day of this week was a fuse burning towards tonight. All the emotion and logic that drove me through the days, carried me through the confrontation I just had, has all fizzled out. Leaving me feeling nothing but a huge ache in my chest.

Again. Again, but worse.

I feel it acutely in this moment, the withdrawal I've been going through for six days. Six days of warring with myself. Six days of seeing nothing but my pathetic-ness every time I look in the mirror. Six days of wishing Edward Cullen was a different person. Wishing I was a different person. And just fucking wishing that he would pull me into him and kiss my forehead, or just give me some sign... any sign that I'm not crazy. That I wasn't the only one that felt something between us.

He was so earnest in his desire for me, I got high on it. It raised me above my true position in this life. I forgot myself. And then, suddenly. It was over. No discussions, no slow retreat. Just the sudden onslaught of his disregard. His casual cruelty. His treatment of me… like I'm nothing.

Maybe I _am_ nothing to him.

I think I could've handled his disinterest, if that was what we went back to. Not this angry venom that he coats me with every time we fucking see each other. It's in his eyes. It's all over his face.

I mean what the fuck is his problem?

What the fuck is MY problem?

I did this to myself.

I revved this engine to life with the desire to hurt him back and walk away. I wanted to prove something to myself. To him. I wanted him to find me in that club. In my wildest fantasies of him pulling me out of the crowd, I didn't actually expect it to happen.

When I cornered Sal earlier tonight and told him I needed a spot, high and far from the dance floor, he looked at me like I was loony. And I was. I absolutely was. I had no idea if Edward Cullen would even show up there tonight. I only knew that I wanted to be there if he did. I only knew that if he was there, somehow, I would find him. Or he would find me.

Somehow, I knew.

And the music. The cathartic nature of it. The anonymity and the noise. Huge noise that obliterated all my pain. I felt… like someone else. Someone with all the audacity and confidence of a normal girl. Not me. It was… empowering. It was liberating.

I even forgot why I was there. I was there to fuck with that man.

The surge of adrenalin I felt when Sal put a couple hundred dollars in my hand, yelled in my ear that whatever the fuck I was up to was panning out; that a man, a regular, and he pointed to a dark corner, wanted to _talk _to me… it manifested itself as triumph. I even chuckled when Sal told me the guy was a classic blow-hard douche-bag, who needed to learn how to use a brush, and warned me against him.

His warnings struck something in me. I knew all about it.

Edward Cullen, the man-whore, the egotist, the faker. The liar. I knew it when I saw his face. When I saw the moment it dawned on him who I was, when he realized who was walking towards his table.

When his eyes got slightly wider. When his lips parted and then closed, his jaw clenched into the tight expression in his attempt to hide the surprise I distinctly saw there.

What that did to me was unreal. It gave me control I never thought I could have. It changed me. My mind insisted that I own this situation. I own this. I could show him. I could hurt him. If he still wanted me, then I had power over him. It was so clear to me the moment I climbed into his lap.

By the time I left him, crossed the dance floor, detached myself from the grip of people trying to draw me into their motion, by the time I found the rear exit… it was gone. Replaced with panic. Panic and the realization that I control nothing. That my bravado is fueled by something ugly in me.

I've never acted out of malice before.

That's not me. Is it?

Am I this person?

Edward Cullen. Made me an addict.

How, when I know what it's like to be touched like that? Kissed like that? I've never had a man look at me like that. How? How do I go back to nothing after THAT?

How? And for what reason?

How do I deal with all this anger and pain? All this reality? The reality that I am not the icy goddess that Virago made me. I'm not the thing of Edward Cullen's, or any man's fantasies. I am Bella Swan. The only power I have in this body is the power to make men uncomfortable. To watch them squirm in their chair and then never call me back.

I have nothing. In this moment, I don't even have myself. I don't even know me.

I am truly a fool. All I've done is more damage.

I slow to a stop at the on-ramp to I-5 and flick on my radio. I can't face this right now. I need… something… anything but this hurt that ignited my lungs the moment I left Virago. I was able to block it out for a few hours, with lights and music and rhythm and ride, but now it's back – worse and all encompassing.

Consuming.

I need anything… any music. Anything but the album Edward gave me, which picks up right in the middle of his favorite song.

And I'm done. I'm done with this body and this pain and this torment. I'm done with being alone and I'm done with heroes and hero worship. I'm done with the anti-heroes. I'm done with ME. I'm done trying. I'm done.

I hurt too much.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

It's late. Very late. My house is dark and quiet. And empty. Like me.

And my hand is killing me.

I flip on the light in the kitchen as Jake trots down the hall, roo-rooing his greeting. I pat him, scratch around his soft ears, and go down to my knees to let him lick my face, which he does briefly before turning his attention to my hand.

"I think I broke it," I tell him. He sits, like he is a good dog who deserves treats. I give him one and pull an ice tray out of the freezer, turning it over and bracing it awkwardly with my elbow while cracking out cubes and putting them into a Ziploc baggie.

I pull out a glass and fill it with Wild Turkey. I don't even bother with cherries. Cherries are a reward.

I balance the baggie over my knuckles and move to the couch, carrying the glass with my good hand. I tuck my knees up and pull the afghan off the back to wrap around myself. Jake climbs up next to me.

I look at the T.V. remote. But I can't. I'm over-stimulated; somehow I need to find calm. Somehow I need to find myself, again.

I am losing me. I thought I knew what getting involved with that man would mean. I had no idea.

I thought this would go so many other ways. Not THIS way. Not this. I thought I would be able to pack myself up after his rejection of me and move on. Despite my burgeoning hope. I absolutely expected it to be for reasons related to my missing breast. But that is not what happened.

Still, I'm not clear on exactly what happened.

There are only a few possibilities for what is going on here.

Possibility number one is that Edward Cullen just toys with people, like a cat with a mouse. Or, mice.

Many mice, in fact.

And, like I've seen a ton of cats do, he got bored with this twitchy little ball of anxiety before he could make the kill. I strung him along for too long, and he decided that a sunny window ledge would be more interesting than tearing out the throat of this mouse.

Or, choosing the ledge over the mouse… is some other kind of game.

Maybe I am nothing to him. Maybe I really am… just… nothing to him.

Maybe.

But, he obviously still has lust for me, to some degree. And that makes me think that it's possible, maybe improbable, but possible… that Edward Cullen genuinely likes me. That he is afraid to like me. For whatever reason, he really cannot get close to anyone. I've forced him close to me. If I was a normal girl… well, I don't know… I can only imagine how I would have handled him if I was complete. I can't Monday-morning-Quarterback this. I can't speculate. I would be someone else if I had never faced cancer. I would be a different person if my mother was still alive.

This is who I am. It's a good thing.

I'm a good person.

Or… I was.

Until last Saturday… I thought I was.

Right now, in this still house, I don't know anymore. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't like who I am. I thought I did. I thought I was okay. I'm not. I'm not okay.

I drain my glass and let the burn of bourbon do the thinking.

I didn't realize exactly how much of me was missing. It's not just a breast – it's more. It's so much more. I didn't know how much one person could hurt me.

It feels like he tore away a part of me with this whole charade. All the good parts of me. Like a shucked oyster, plundered of meat and pearl… I am an empty shell now. Not even a pretty one, like an abalone with its iridescence. I am just this.

This angry half-self.

I unwrap myself and go to the kitchen, setting the empty glass in the sink. I consider the bottle and take it back to the couch with me.

I'm not supposed to drink excessively. I'm supposed to do everything in moderation or not at all. No smoking, no drugs, no birth control, no fast food. I'm supposed to check the labels on everything I eat, even on what I wear, my lotions and the shampoo I use. I am supposed to exercise, but not too hard… and go to support groups where I can see my future. My supposedly happy future, adjusted to life with the threat of cancer looming over me.

My possibly short future, where I have nothing.

My whole life is about IF. IF I'm lucky, IF someone can get past this, IF I can hold cancer at bay, IF I can finish school, IF I can save enough money before I get sick again. IF, IF, IF.

I drink straight from the bottle. I just need oblivion. I just need a pain-killer.

Just tonight.

I'm just so tired of all the IFs.

Edward Cullen… helped me forget all of them sometimes. And other times, he threw them into abstract focus.

A stupid illusion of a man… one I created. This is all my fault. I should've just told him right away and saved myself from this… disaster. This catastrophic meltdown going on inside me. He built this rage in me, this adamant ache that won't let me go. I forged the cage that traps me just outside his grasp.

I need to just let go and leave it be.

Let it go, Bella. Move on.

Maybe I am nothing to him. Maybe I really am… nothing to him.

I don't think I can do this. Any of this.

I should move to Australia. Like Alexander when he had his no-good-awful-terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-day. That day where he woke up with gum in his hair. I should move far away and hide. I can't move away from myself though. That comes with me wherever I go. And that's the thing I really want to get away from.

I am snapped out of my contemplation by the buzz of my cell phone.

It can only be one person.

The display is his pinched expression from his Allstate page. I swipe to answer the call.

"Edward?" I don't know why I'm whispering. Maybe it's because the house, in all its still darkness, demands it.

He chuckles quietly on the other end of the line. "Isa-bella… Ma-rie… Swan."

"Am I in trouble?"

"You have some serious 'splaining to do."

I can't help it. I laugh. It's hot from my body. Hot, and a little thin.

He does too.

"You remembered my middle name."

"Yes." His voice is quiet, the phone is too. I wonder where he is. I ask.

"I'm at the condo. Where are you?"

"At home."

The line is silent. Then he says, "It's dark here… and I've been drinking… and thinking. A lot."

"Oh?" My heart is hammering in my chest. Liquor and his voice making it gain speed. "About what?"

"About you."

"What about me?"

"Just you. Wanting to call you. So I thought I would."

"Call me… or… _call_ me?"

"_Call_ you."

There's a weird static-y click and I think the line disconnected. "Hello?"

"I'm here."

"You sound different."

"I put my Bluetooth in."

An image of Edward with his wild hair blocking the glow from his ear floods my mind, his condescending smile flashed at me, that day in the break room, right as I realized he wasn't talking to me. "Oh?"

"I need to be hands free for this."

What the fuck?

"So. Is it too fucking cheesy if I ask you what the fuck you're wearing and then tell you how I'm going to take all those fucking clothes off of you?"

I don't know what to say to that. I squeak out what I think is a 'no' and he laughs. A deep, self deprecatory laugh that makes my bones hum. Lust, breaking through my fog.

"Tell me, then."

"You saw - what I am wearing. I haven't changed yet."

He groans. A hot, hurtful sound that echoes inside my ear, shivers down the back of my neck, finds me in all my most visceral spaces and cinches them tight together. "This… is the part where you tell me… about my masculine-ness, and remember to use the words want and wet."

"Yes," is all I can seem to manage.

He repeats the word. "Yes. Yes. I like that word. You have a lot of fucking balls, girl… you know that?"

"Yes."

"Yes. Yes. What the fuck possessed you to do that?"

"You did."

"I like that answer. A lot. What else?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, you must know, Isabella-Marie. You must."

"You don't play very fair. I can play that way, too." My cheeks aren't the only thing burning. All of me burns. Quickly kindled heat from the flame of his voice, the flame of bourbon, all seeking to burn out the desperation and self reproach that was eating me alive.

"Obviously. And you were right. I want you. It hurts, I want you so bad. It doesn't go away. It will never go away. I just want to touch you. I just want to breathe you in and trap you within me. Do you know what you smell like? I don't believe in heaven… I believe in the way you smell. I believe in the way you move. I want to pull you against me and show you what I believe. That I do have… a sort of faith."

Edward Cullen becomes a poet in this moment. This drunken, sexually-charged moment. My eyes close and all there is, is his voice. His voice and his breath and they are both finding the most sensitive strings of my being and pulling them gently.

"When I get my hands on you, Bella. There is no part of you that is safe from my worship. Your body will become my church. Not one inch of skin… won't I find, don't I touch… don't make yearn for me. All of you, Bella… all of you. I'm going to brand you, under your clothes, under your color, under your skin, like you have me."

The earpiece is full of his hitched breathing. It's the most erotic thing I have ever heard.

"Where are your claws, kitten?"

Just my shaky breathing. There is no oxygen available to me in this moment. Everything I am is an engulfing ache.

"Show them to me… show me. Tell me."

"I don't… know what to say."

"You did a couple hours ago."

But that person I was then is gone… I lost her in my temper tantrum, in my sulking. Now I am just a puddle of mess, created by this man. This bitter God of a man, who I still want, who I relish wanting me, whose desire both shames and excites me.

All my motivations are blurred in my intoxicated mind. All I know right now is that I still want him. And I want him to keep talking. "What are you doing?"

He laughs again. "What the fuck do you think I'm doing?"

"A crossword puzzle?"

"No Bella. Not a crossword puzzle."

"Where are you… in your condo?"

"Against the wall, near the slider."

"Where you kissed me?"

"Yes. Right there."

"Are you sitting down?"

"These questions aren't very interesting to me, Bella…"

"I'm trying to set the scene."

"Mmmmm… I see. No… I'm not sitting."

"Clothes?"

"None."

"Fuck."

"Yes."

Quiet again, and then he whispers. "I want to hear you come. Really, this time."

"I don't know if I can."

"Why not?"

"I hurt my hand."

"Oh. How?"

"Radio…" I let my voice trail off, trying to find the words to describe the moment I put my fist into the unyielding plastic dash of my car. Instead I say, "You?"

He knows exactly what I mean. "Mirror."

"Hmmm."

"Quite a pair we make, Isabella-Marie."

"You keep chastising me with my name."

"Yes. It fills my head right now with all its syllables. Like they are connecting to all your parts. They get to touch you, while I can only dream of it. All your syllables and skin. The goal to win… but I'm losing, aren't I?

"There you go, speaking in poetry again."

"There you go, changing the subject, again."

I laugh. It feels funny, like it requires more lung capacity than I own.

He says, "How about toys, Bella-Bella-Marie. Find one for me… please."

His voice, his pleading. I've been aroused by Edward Cullen before, intensely, and this feeling obliterates all of it. This drunken necessity. I feel vacant, I feel hollow, I am the chalice and I need to be filled. I must have it, like breathing, a different kind of nourishment. A different kind of demand.

I need Edward Cullen.

In my muddled state… want is irrelevant. Do I want him? Such a small word for the ravenous hunger eating me alive. I just want him to obliterate the empty spaces within me. I want him to fill me back up. I want him to do it with the only part of him he can freely give. His cock.

My heat is everywhere, marching around my body and burning my face as I get up from the couch and move to the bedroom. "I have one… but I don't really use it."

"Use it Bella. Please. Please…"

My traitor mind shows me Irina.

I'm sure she shares his bed often. Her or someone like her. With her lascivious smile, her warrior body, her muscular ass, her ample bosom. I don't want to think about her. Her face encapsulates all my pain. My hate for myself and my scorn for Edward twist into her visage.

And the shame in that… in my jealousy. I can't keep that at bay. I'm not the temptress of Edward Cullen's aroused mind. That is a lie. I am the nightmare.

I realize the line has been quiet a moment when Edward breathes in my ear. Like he can fucking read my mind. "You, Bella. I want YOU. Please don't go."

I try to conjure myself, and Edward touching me, and I can't. Maybe it's because I know Edward's fantasies are a lie. Because I am a liar.

"Don't go, Bella. I can tell you are thinking about it. Stay. Please."

I can't go. This is part of the game. This fucked up cat and mouse game. I don't remember which one I am, the cat or the mouse, all I know is, I have to play it.

"I'm not going."

"Goooooood. Going is bad. The opposite… I want the opposite. What do you want? You want me to fuck you?" His voice is breathy and kind, like he really needs me to say yes, so I do.

"Then you need to take off some clothes, Bella-Bella-Marie."

But I don't. And he knows it.

"Take. Your Fucking. Clothes Off." He sounds urgent and needy, and his tone mandates my compliance.

I shimmy out of my shorts. That's the best I can do.

I lean back against the wall of my bedroom as he talks.

He talks about kissing the insides of my wrists and the place where my ear meets my neck. He says he will find the hollow at the base of my throat and press his lips to it. He talks about running his hands and his mouth over my navel and my nipples.

I don't correct him. I imagine my sixteen year old self. My whole unmarked self. I imagine Edward finding me then, when I was still new. The same lie, over and over and over.

He talks about dragging his tongue over my clitoris and then kissing my mouth. That he will use his fingers and his teeth. He tells me that he wants to watch my face when he puts his cock inside of me. He wants to breathe me and consume me and scatter me to the wind.

His voice is beautiful. His words are magical. And yes… I'm touching myself. My hand hurts like a motherfucker, but I can't stop.

When he asks me if I'm wet … I say yes.

When he asks me if I know that because my fingers are sliding against my clit… I say yes.

When he asks me if I'm close… I say yes.

When he tells me that he is very close, I say yes. And then I say it again.

When he tells me that he needs me… I'm gone. Indeed scattered to the wind. I feel my ragged breath catch in my chest as my muscles, all of me, all that I am, starts to clench and dissolve. I have no spine, I have no fingers… I have no mind, I have only heat. Heat and wind and Edward Cullen growling, "Christ, Bella," right into my ear. His soft groan is all that I know.

It fills me.

It torments me. That sound. The sound of something exquisitely male, base and earthy. Something I get to be a part of, in this small fraction of my whole life. Something carnal and intoxicating.

It's Edward Cullen. It's his pleasure. It's his pain. It's his humanity. It's his vulnerability. It's something he gives to scores of women. So many he can't count them all, and now me, but only from a distance.

As my body stills, as the quaking eases and I return to myself. I want to cry. This man. This man. Why did it have to be THIS man?

"Edward?"

"I need a minute, Bella." He gasps.

I wait. I wonder if he wants to cry, like I do. He sounds like it.

Stupid girl, I tell myself.

I wonder if fucking is just like that for Edward. If he can't help but show his softer side when the heat is upon him. I wonder if fucking, with him, always feels like poetry. Always feels like rightness and completion and… maybe I'm just drunk. Drunk with poor judgment.

But, it didn't sound like that with Irina. I didn't hear him saying anything to her, except the word FUCK. Maybe that is the nature of phone sex, though. You have to talk about something. I wouldn't know… I've never done it before.

So many firsts with this man. And so many feelings. That is why it hurts so much. When you know it can feel like that when a man wraps his arms around you, how do you go back to being permanently alone? How do you even try with someone else, when the one you want is right, fucking, there?

I cannot keep doing this to myself. I have to remember that I was happy enough, alone. And that there is someone out there for me. It's just not THIS man. I have to just move past this. I have to leave him behind me.

Edward Cullen.

His name hurts. Even more now. Because in his lust he writes songs, lyrics painting a picture of something bigger than what is really going on here.

What IS going on here?

I can hear the clink and slosh of liquor through the phone. I imagine wild, untamable Edward Cullen, naked in his kitchen, fumbling with scotch. And his empty refrigerator.

And his bedroom.

And me. This liar. Lying by omission. Lying in my actions.

Hating myself under all this afterglow.

I can hear him swallowing. I imagine his Adam's apple bobbing under the scruffed skin of his beautiful neck. His jaw. His beautiful jaw.

Beautiful man. Cruel man.

"You're so… beautiful, Bella... your name, is perfect for you. You are definitely a Bella."

I can't breathe.

"Did you mean what you said, about last Saturday?"

"What about it?"

"That it made you want to rub one out in my bathroom. Did you mean that?"

I purse my lips. I am enough of a liar already. "Not really."

"Why did you say it then?"

"Why did you DO it?"

"Cause I'm a fucking ass." I can hear his head shake in his voice.

"Me too," I say quietly.

"Did you want to be a dancer? When you were little?"

"No. I didn't want to be a dancer… I was a dancer. Like I was a swimmer. It's not something I thought I should become… it's just what I am. Does that make sense?"

"Yes. Perfect sense. What did you want to be?"

I sigh. "Not an administrative assistant, that's for sure."

"What then?"

"When I was really little… I wanted to be Major Tom and go exploring outer-space. Then… I wanted to be photographer. Then… I didn't know anymore. What about you?"

"Major Tom - like David Bowie's Major Tom?"

"I didn't really understand the whole gist of the song when I was little."

"I was going to say… that isn't a happy song."

"I thought it was. Especially because of Peter Schilling's Major Tom. I thought… he was going to live in space, somehow. He was happy about it."

"I never thought that. That song always terrified me. _Floating in a tin can far beyond the moon._ How… alone he would die."

"Is it really different? Floating and dying in space, looking down on the beautiful earth… or dying surrounded by people you know? Either way, it seems like a lonely proposition. No one can share it or fix it. It just… is. You and death, you know."

I can hear Edward setting his cup in the porcelain sink, the water running. He doesn't say anything. I get the feeling he doesn't like this line of conversation.

"What did you want to be? Did you want to sell insurance?"

"Not for one minute." He has a tremor in his voice. "I thought... I would be a musician. I already was one, like you were a swimmer."

"Why aren't you, then?"

The miles between us are absolutely still. I can hear him… he is stretching himself out in his bed. I find a pair of jammie-bottoms and slide them on, crawling into my own bed.

"Why aren't you a dancer... or a photographer?"

"Circumstances... changed the trajectory of my life."

"Me too."

"You can't change it back?"

He takes a deep shaky breath. "No."

"I can't either."

"Honestly Bella, I don't believe that about you. You can."

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

_I am climbing and climbing. And Edward is smiling, chasing me up this tree. We go higher and higher and higher, until we reach the clouds. I feel like Mario when he got the leaf and could fly up to the secret coin heaven where the accelerated chiming of video game music meant you had twenty-five seconds to make yourself rich. To collect all the coins you could and gain another life. I can't see my feet, but this cloud holds me. I can walk on it. I can jump on it. And I can fall on it, because Edward just tackled me to the ground. He calls me Bella-Bella-Marie and then he kisses me. Kissing and kissing and falling into the cloud, through it. I reach for him as I slide through pastry cream, the lightest of whipping creams, the softest of spun cotton candy engulfing me, swallowing me and spitting me out the other side, where I plummet back down to earth. _

_I hit the ground with a thud, a crater forming around me where I lay. I can see Edward peeking down at me from on high. He smiles and waves. I try to wave back but I can't. I think I broke my hand in my fall. Or my heart. Or something._

When I wake up the next morning around eleven, my head feels split open right where my neck meets my skull. Split, pounding, and encouraging me to get something out of my body. Something poisonous. My phone on its charger still has an open connection. I can hear Edward snoring softly through it.

I want to hug him. I want to nudge him awake with a cup of coffee. I want to do anything but end the call, but that is what I do.

And then I throw up. Once in the toilet and again in the shower. It looks like anti-freeze. Probably because I haven't eaten anything in almost twenty-four hours.

I wonder if Edward sleeps better when he obliterates himself with alcohol. I made him sober up that one night at my house, and he had a nightmare. Not for the first time I wonder if he dreams about the war, and what that was like. How he got that ugly, ugly scar across his chest. Right above the nipple, like someone cut away a chuck of his muscle, from the front to the underarm. A jagged, thick scar. Not that different from my own.

I get dressed slowly, taking care with my sore hand. It feels like the fucking dickens this morning. I rummage in my first aid kit and find an ace bandage and some Aleve. I wrap it up and take a couple of the small, blue pain relievers, washing them down with water and hoping I don't throw them back up. I consider forcing down a bowl of flax-seed granola that Sue dropped off the other day. "Omega-threes!" She declared as she handed me two packages of the stuff. She looked hard at me and told me that I needed it. And that I should probably make a doctor's appointment because I look fatigued.

Yes. I am.

I decide that food sounds like the worst idea ever and go brush on some mascara. I take deep breaths and remind myself that it's just a hangover. That I won't be nauseated all day. That I just have to pound water and I will feel better.

I haven't felt this completely like shit in a long time. I don't even say goodbye to Jake. I just leave, arriving at Jane's with minutes to spare. It's a chaotic whirlwind of activity, as usual, and I find Jane in the back pulling trays of tiropites out of the freezers.

She gives my hand a look. "So... did you punch him in the face?"

"Who?"

"I'm not daft, Bella. I know who and you do, too."

Of course I do. "No – I didn't hit him. I fell." I lie. I am always a liar now.

"Can you work with your hand fucked like that?"

I give Jane a look. It says, what kind of pussy do you think I am? Of course I fucking can.

She narrows her eyes at me then tosses me the menu and a pen. "Pull and load. You have Embry tonight. He has instructions to show up at the location at four. Make him do most of the carrying. You have an hour until departure. Four till R.T.S."

My hand is a world of agony as I load my car with the usual shit. My whole body feels weak and a little precarious as I hoist crates over the tailgate and into the car. I keep telling myself I'm not going to throw up as Jane prattles on about this event. She sits on the board for Seattle Hospice and this is their annual fundraiser soiree for Christmas. She tells me that once today's three parties make it out the door, she will be showering her shit, strapping on some Fuck-Me-Pumps and hitting this shindig like the oldest kid at a piñata.

"You may need to drive me home, Bella."

"Okay, Jane."

Then she looks at me. "Carlisle sits on the board, you know."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. He was just elected right after his wedding. Esme too."

"Cool."

"Not a problem for you if they are there, then?"

"No." And I mean it. The few times I've spoken with Carlisle, he's been nothing but genuinely polite to me.

Jane gives me directions to a private residence in Carlisle's swanky neighborhood, a gate code, and a kiss on the cheek. She rubs my arm like I need reassurance. "See you later, girlie."

In the car I check my mirror. Yep, I look like hammered shit. I rummage in my bag for some chap stick. It's like putting a band-aid on a severed limb.

When I pull up to the house, I can see Embry's rusty little Tercel parked off to the side, out of the way. He's leaned against it, already in his white and black, his tie draped loosely around his neck. I jump out, give him a nod and he heads over to me. I unhitch the tailgate and pull his tie from him as he eyes my hand.

"I fell."

"I didn't ask."

Embry likes to give me attitude. Which is funny because he can't even knot his own tie. I do it up loose for him and hand it back.

"Thanks Bells." He picked that up from Jasper, who is his idol. He is even growing his hair out long like him. It's pulled back into a ponytail at his crown, the shaved sides fuzzy looking around his ears.

"I like your hair." He gives me his fresh outta high school grin. I try to find a smile for him but I just don't have one. "Let's do this."

And so begins the long process of another fucking party. I am thankful for the help. Embry offloads almost everything for me and I get to work setting up in the kitchen. Chopping is a nightmare, unpacking drinks is another nightmare. Embry isn't old enough to work the bar, so I put him on food and bussing.

Fortunately, this party isn't too large, about seventy-five in all.

They trickle in and as usual I give myself the percentage of how fucking done I am. One more day of this and then nothing for weeks and weeks. January and February are pretty dead, catering wise.

I am so excited for a weekend I can almost taste it. And eggnog. And Christmas. And rest.

I just need to rest.

I twist the cap back on a bottle of Grey Goose when Jane, several inches taller, comes up to the bar and leans against it. "I'll have one of those. A double if you please." She flashes me her big happy-not-to-be-working smile and I pour her a double vodka tonic with an orange slice. She leans back against the bar and starts chatting with me about all the yuckety-yucks here. Mr. So-n-so whose donation built the new wing of Swedish Medical last year. The cancer wing. Mrs. Whats-her-face who established hospice care in Seattle back in the early seventies. People come and go around us.

I'm only sort of listening to her, helping people get wine and beer and mixed drinks, when her voice drops an octave and says, "Fuck me, Bella. Total looker at ten o'clock."

Somehow, I know who it is, even before I look.

"You've never met Edward Cullen, Jane?"

Her eyes get really big and I tighten mine. "I see why you didn't hit him in the face."

"Ha. Ha."

"He's coming over here. Toodle-oo." And she winks at me.

Everyone I know has gone crazy. Or maybe it's me. Maybe how I feel about him, as much as I try not to show it, maybe it's all over me.

Jasper pulled me aside the other day and told me to snap out of it. That he's never seen me like this. That Edward Cullen isn't worth the long face I have all the time now. I know he isn't. I know that. Somewhere in me… I know it.

And Leah. Leah is going to go ballistic when she finally runs me down. I do not look forward to that.

I pull the single malt scotch out from under the counter as he leans against the bar. I wonder what my eyes are saying right now. Because my brain is screaming why is he here and who is he going to fuck in a closet tonight. I wonder if he thinks last night is sufficient to my end. If he thinks the ladder has been climbed. If he's off the hook. Maybe he is. Maybe I'm done.

I see a muscle work in his jaw as his eyes run over me, lingering on my hand. Then he reaches out, slowly, gently brushing his knuckles, bruised purple and green, over the bandage wrapping my own knuckles.

"Why. Are you everywhere I go?" His face is solemn.

"You didn't know I would be here?"

He shakes his head. His eyes are big and glassy and green. Together we are Christmas. He of green eyes, and me of red cheeks.

"I'm not supposed to be here. Esme has a migraine and Carlisle refuses to leave her. Emmett is in some po-dunk town called Forks. So I have to represent. Which, you and I both know, I don't do very well. Can I have a scotch please?"

I pour him one.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

Edward Cullen doesn't bang anyone in a closet. Or the bathroom, or the dark patio lit by Christmas lights. I know this because he stays near the bar for most of the evening. When he sets his glass down on the marble surface and I make to fill it he holds up his hand and shakes his head. He points to the seltzer water and I pour him a glass.

When he isn't at the bar, he's still visible. Always, he stays where he can see me… or… he stays where I can see him. I don't really know if he does it on purpose or not. He talks with Jane for awhile and I think it's pretty funny that as soon as the conversation is over she comes and tells me that the party is completely boring and she's out.

As the event winds down I start to worry if I'm going to have to take my stupid ass to a doctor. It takes every ounce of every bit of me to get through this pain. It throbs in my knuckle, up my arm and into my shoulder. From there it has easy access right to my brain which just seems to be saying ow-ow-ow with every motion I take.

I pack up food and stick it in the refrigerator. I snuff Sternos and dump water baths. Embry starts hauling everything out to my car while I do dishes and clean.

When I look up from packing a crate of plates, I see two pairs of eyes waiting for directions. Embry and his dark Quileute eyes, and Edward's, as green as polished beach glass. Embry kneels and grabs a big tub of serving pieces wrapped in towels, followed by Edward who hoists up the crate I just packed. He silently follows Embry outside.

I watch him go. My head spins.

After everything is hauled out and cleaned up, Edward walks me out. I wave to Embry and he takes off in a blur of teenage speed. Edward moves around me and closes up the tailgate of my car, before he turns, silently pulling me into him.

"Bella." His voice soft against my ear. "What can I do to help you?"

He kisses me, right where he said he would. Right where my ear meets my neck. And I can hear him breathing me in. Just like he said he would.

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Why shouldn't I be nice to you?"

"Well. I feel like I've bullied you into something you don't actually want. And you're being… so kind about it. I thought you would be, different."

"I decided last night that I'm not going to fight you. I don't think I have the energy for it. You are too…omnipresent. In more ways than you know."

I look at him. I don't really know what he means by that, but it makes something inside me pitter patter. I am not going to think about Irina, or his condo, or what happens tomorrow or the next day.

"I think I need to get my hand x-rayed."

"What did you do – exactly?"

"I punched my radio. Then I kicked it. I was wearing those big boots though, so my foot is okay. I broke my radio, so – go me."

He laughs. "Yours is music, and mine is a reflection. That sounds like us."

'Us' is not something that exists.

"Come on," he says. "I'll drive you to Virginia Mason."

And I let him. He barely drank a thing tonight. I can't help but wonder if he did that on purpose too. Like staying where I could see him.

He leaves the Jag tucked into the driveway after letting the owner of the house know that he would come get it tomorrow. I climb into the passenger seat of the Rodeo and watch as he uses my keys to turn my engine over. Chafing dishes, frames, and silverware shift in the back of the car as he pulls out of the long curved driveway, rights the vehicle and pushes it gently up to speed. He doesn't drive this car the way he drives the Jag. He drives it carefully, like he worries that it will come apart under his hands.

I see him checking out my bashed in dash. The on/off button to the radio is missing and the display is cracked. The digits that could formerly be read there are just confused dashes now.

"What song was it?"

"I'd rather not say. I feel… very sheepish about the whole thing."

"Is it because of me?"

"Do you really need me to answer that?"

He faces me. "Yes. I really do."

The growl of the engine fills the car for awhile as I contemplate what is going on here. How much to tell him. If I should just throw in the towel on all of this and just… try to let it go. What he did, how he did it. How it will always be there in my mind. I wonder exactly how much kindness it would take from him to erase the memory of it. It would take a lot.

And there is no amount that changes me, and who I am. Not any.

"It's a lot of things. Not just you. But you're a part of it. I never should have said yes to you, Edward. It was a very bad idea."

He is quiet for a few minutes, his head slightly cocked to one side as if he is working something out, and I wonder, for the millionth time, if he knows.

I don't think he knows. But maybe he does.

"So… what happens here?"

"What do you mean?"

"You say you shouldn't have said yes to me. But you told me last night that I have to climb this ladder to the top. Where is the top, exactly – to you? I fuck you and then what? This is over? Are you sure you even want that?"

I nod. I don't know if he sees. He must because he shakes his own head. "I'm really confused, Bella. Help me here."

"I just…" I just don't even know what to say.

"You just - what? I don't understand. Didn't Alec call you?"

"How do you know about that?"

"That doesn't matter. Why not go out with that guy?"

Because I don't know that guy. Because that guy doesn't have green eyes and Cullen teeth. Because I must really hate myself. Because if I have to punish anyone with my body then it's going to be Edward.

I don't say anything. I just look out my window.

He's confused? So am I. It's like a cyclical thing. We confuse each other. He wants me… but he doesn't. He wants me to accept offers from other people. And yet, he is going out of his way to help me. I want him… but I don't. I don't know what I'm doing. He doesn't know either.

I am about to tell him to forget it. That this has been swell and I'm done, and good-bye, so-long, farewell, when he turns his face back to me and says words that reflect all my turmoil.

"We're fucked up people. Aren't we?"

My sharp exhale is almost a laugh. A humorless agreement with his assessment of our situation. I nod as he pulls up to the Vee-Em E.R. and parks. "Where do I take all this stuff?"

"You don't have to do that."

"You'll probably be here for awhile. Tell me where and I will go unload it for you. Then I'll pick you up."

I open my mouth and he gives me a look. "Don't argue with me this time, Bella. Just go."

He has a tone that I've never heard before. It's gentle, it's concern. It's still an order.

I hand him one of Jane's cards and he wraps his fingers around mine, bringing them up to his mouth. "Call me when you're done."

And then he drives off in my car.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>Bella looks beyond tired when she finally pushes open the double doors separating the waiting room from the treatment area. Her hand is splinted and the discharge nurse confirms with me that I will be driving her home.<p>

"You broke it, huh?" I ask her.

She nods. "Boxers fracture."

I hold my arm out and she takes it. I've never seen her look so meek and defeated. We walk out to the car and she gets in on the passenger side, immediately turning her face away from me. We've been here before. Different vehicle, different day. I can only vaguely see her ear in the dark car. Really, I only know where it is due to the glint of the sapphire tucked high in its curve.

We hit a bend in the road as I cruise out of the hospital, and I see her press her face to the glass, a moment before she implores me to pull over.

I do, immediately. She's out of the car in a flash and down to her knees, braced on her good hand. She's retching in the bushes. A painful sight. I leave the car running and get out. She holds her splinted hand out, silently commanding me not to come closer. She hasn't thrown up anything, though. Not yet. And I start to wonder.

"When did you last eat, Bella?"

She waves her splint at me like it's the stupidest question I could ask.

"What did they give you? Vicodin?"

She nods.

"Stay here."

She nods again. I point her car back towards the hospital and find a vending machine. I get her some cheese crackers and a Sprite.

When I get back she's huddled into herself, sitting on the curb, waiting.

I park the car and sit next to her. She's shaking. I open the package of crackers and hand her one. She takes it with pale limp fingers and nibbles it. I pop open the soda and hand that to her.

Her laugh is light and quivery. "I'm not supposed to eat any of this stuff. Sue will kill me." She turns to me. "Thank you."

I give her a gesture of _it was nothing_. And I look at her. Her delicate profile, her skin slightly waxy, her eyes tired. She's still wearing her tie. It's loose around her neck. It makes her look small. Like the tie belonged to a man, a big one, and now a child is playing dress-up with it. She's looking at her shoes. Sensible work shoes with non-skid soles.

Sensible Bella. Not so sensible today... or yesterday.

Already tainted by me. I know it. I know why we're sitting here. I know why she broke her hand. I know why she went to Virago. The ego is a fragile thing. When I remove myself from it all, I can see with stark clarity of how damaging my actions have been. I thought Bella was tough, stronger than me. I knew when I did it, when I fucked Irina behind that door, that it would hurt her. But I thought she would flip her pony-tail at me and leave me in her wake - like I deserve. I thought she would recover after a few days, or even hours. I misjudged her. We all have our limits.

I know what desperation looks like.

I just… don't know why. It just doesn't make sense for Bella to waste her time or her energy on me. It doesn't make sense that of all the fucking people who give a shit about her, I'm the one handing her crackers out of a package in the middle of the night outside of Virginia Mason.

It should be anyone BUT me. I should stick to my fucking guns and stay away from her. This is the thought that cuts through my mind right as my arm wraps around her shoulders. I just want her to stop shaking. I have body heat, and she needs some of it.

I give her another cracker. She takes it and I tuck my head down, my nose finding the band holding her hair up.

If I were a good man. If I fucking were, then I could take the bleak sadness from her eyes. I could replace it with joy. I would. If I could. I would spend my life doing it. But I can't.

I put it there. That's the kind of man I am.

"I feel better," she says, her voice small. I stand and hoist her to her feet. She climbs into the car and I circle around. I notice she doesn't tuck her knee up, like she does in my car. Her face is pale and serious, but it's turned towards me now, at least.

"Thank you."

"You've already thanked me, Bella. Once is enough."

"It doesn't feel like enough."

"It does to me."

She smiles at me. It feels comfortable, like we've been friends our whole lives, not these two people in the middle of some kind of pissing contest. I smile back at her. Her eyes close, her lashes cutting into the white oval of her face.

"What do you want for Christmas, Edward?"

"Nothing. I don't really celebrate it."

"I do, though."

"That doesn't mean you need to buy me something. I have what I need already."

"Everything?"

I look sideways at her. Her eyes are still closed.

"I don't think you have everything you need," she whispers.

My heart speeds up a little bit, wondering what she thinks I need. "Don't I?"

"Nope."

"What do I need, Bella?"

"Do you have _From the Cradle_?"

Music. She thinks I need more music. After she used her fist to break her radio. "Is that… Eric Clapton?"

"Yes."

"I never really got into Clapton."

"Then you definitely need _From the Cradle_."

"As long as it doesn't have 'Tears In Heaven' on it."

"It doesn't."

The conversation ends and the only sound between us is the growl of her old battered vehicle.

"I don't mind if you don't like it. You can tell me. You never mentioned the other album I gave you. Did you ever listen to it?"

Every fucking day. "Yes."

"Is that it? Just - yes?"

"Just yes."

"Just yes, then." She sounds tired and resigned.

I pull off the freeway at her exit and start making all the necessary turns towards her small house. Where she lives alone. Then I will go back to my condo where I live alone. And we will continue to be separate people. Separate, fucked up people.

"Do you have any vinyl?"

"No. I don't have a player."

"Well, there is something you need. See. You don't have everything, Captain Inheritance."

I give her a look. She is smiling with her eyes closed. The side of my mouth twitches up. "You're rummy, Bella."

"Good game, rummy."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

I pull into her driveway and let the car idle. Bella's eyes open, but she doesn't move to get out. She looks at me. There is a lot I could read into it. I try not to, because none of it is good.

"Come in?"

"I don't think so."

"I'm not going to jump you or anything."

My smile is humorless. Her jaw clenches. Then unclenches.

"Fine. I guess I'll see you later then."

She pulls the handle with her left hand, giving me her back as she slides out of the vehicle. She doesn't look at me as she grabs her bag and her soda. The slam of the heavy door makes the whole car shift. It rocks me where I sit.

I think of my condo and all its emptiness. I see myself parking the Isuzu in the garage, finding an open elevator, rising to the top where I will proceed straight to drinking. I think of every night of this last week, alone. Alone and thinking about a girl I just want to spend time with. Is that really so bad, just wanting to be with her?

I think about last night and the throaty hum of her genuine orgasm, how it took me immediately to the edge and pushed me over it. How my heart stopped. How she makes me feel. It's not normal to feel this way. It's fucking terrifying.

I kill the engine and lock her doors.

I make my way up the path towards the front of the house. Bella is stretched tall, sliding her hand over the frame, probably looking for a hidden key. I see a glint of silver in the darkness as her fingers find it and bring it down.

She turns the key in the lock and the door swings in. I can see Jakes face peeking out. His tail wagging in the shadows.

"Changed your mind?"

I don't answer, I just follow her in. She flips on the overhead light and tosses her bag on the table near the door. There's an open bottle of Wild Turkey next to the couch. My eyes leave it and find hers, dark and tired. She doesn't say anything as she goes into the kitchen and gets me a glass.

She excuses herself and disappears into her bedroom. I fill the glass and sip from it while looking at her space, at her bookshelf full of music, the top of it decorated with Christmas cards. Tidings of peace and joy. She has a little live tree on a stool in the corner, strung with lights and a motley crew of ornaments. Not the untouchable perfectly matched trees I grew up with, all gold and purple with every ornament just so. This one is very Bella, with homemade ornaments and a red and green construction paper chain. There are wrapped gifts tucked all around it, with her ferocious script indicating who it's for. Jasper, Alice, Dad. Leah and Sam and Seth and Sue. And me. She asked me what I wanted for Christmas but she's already gotten me something. I wonder what it is - it doesn't look like a CD. The shape is wrong.

I sigh. How did I get so fucked? I am truly, truly messed up. I feel it with particular clarity in this moment. The absolute atrocity that is taking a gift like Bella and tossing her out like nothing. The abject asshole I am for disregarding her in my unilateral way. She is the bird that hit the window.

Thunk.

I am the window.

I fooled her into thinking the window was open. She flew towards me and then I slammed it in her face.

I am disgusting.

I bend over and plug in her tree. The lights wink on and cast their glow up the wall and across the floor. I sit on her couch and watch the steady fade in and out of red and yellow, then green and blue. I close my eyes against the burn of the bourbon, tipping the last swallow down my throat, wondering if Bella fell asleep on her bed. I am just about to rise and check when she comes back into the room. Her hair is down and brushed, her face is washed and she's changed into stretchy pants and an oversized hoodie that says Stanford. It looks ancient.

"It's hard to brush your teeth left handed," she says lightly.

"I do it all the time."

"Of course you do." She smiles, veering towards the kitchen and returning with a glass of water.

She circles around the couch and sits at the other end of it, tucking one leg under her and the other one to her chest in her usual way. She drains her glass and leans her head against the seat back.

"I feel… exhausted."

"No offense, but you look it."

She rolls her eyes. "Thanks."

I reach out for her glass. "Here." She gives it to me and lets her eyes fall closed.

"You turned on the tree."

Another weird moment. Like so many with her. She didn't say MY tree. She said THE tree. Like it's something I can own, too. Like she wants to share it with me. I contemplate it as I fill her glass from the refrigerator spigot.

The postcard I sent her from Guanacaste still hangs, trapped against the fridge by a magnet with a picture of a cat wearing a General's uniform. It reads "War on string may be unwinnable."

How fucking appropriate.

And I'm a fucking dick. There it is, right there on her fridge, the sign of my window being open. Showing me who I am, as bad as any mirror. Come to me, little bird. Trust me… so that I can fucking fuck with you. Fuck.

I return and hand her the glass. She just holds it, looking up at me. Maybe she can tell I am getting ready to leave because she says, "Do you want to play a game?"

I raise a brow at her. "Aren't we already?"

She smiles a tight little smile. "I guess so. But, I think I used the instruction manual to clean up dog-vomit. I don't really know what I'm doing."

I laugh. Despite myself. Despite my self-loathing. It's easy, like it so often is with her. Because she turns our worst moments together into jokes. She brings levity to me. When we're together, I almost believe that I can be a different person.

I hit the switch near the door and then the one in the kitchen. The living room is dark, lit only by the merry glow of strung lights. They illuminate Bella in patterns of green and gold. I take her glass from her and set it on the table.

She watches me take my seat at the other end of the couch, tilting her head to one side in question when I lean over and pull her good hand until she unfolds herself and leans into me, nesting her head in the hollow of my underarm.

We sit, reclining together, quiet for several minutes.

"Edward, what's your middle name?" Her voice is lethargic and I like the feel of it, the vibration of her tone in the cavern of my chest.

"Anthony."

"Anthony. Are you Italian?"

"In part."

"And the other part?"

"British, I think. You?"

"Scottish, mostly. You know what the Swan family motto is?"

"I didn't know they had a motto."

"We do. Fidelitas. It's –"

"I know what it means. It means fidelity." My voice has that tone. That angry, impatient tone.

"It does." Her voice remains calm, she seems unfazed. "My mother was French-Canadian as well as Scottish. My last name was almost hyphenated. Do you know who I would've been then?"

"Who?"

"Isabella-Marie… Swan-LeBlanc."

"Swan-LeBlanc? Swan-White?"

"Yep… that was a near miss."

"Indeed."

She yawns and presses her face against my chest, rubbing like a contented cat. I wonder if she can feel the scar tissue through my shirt. I wonder what she thought when she saw it. I wonder if she already knows. If Alice told her. I keep my eyes on the slowly surging lights of the tree, trying to measure how I feel about Bella knowing. I don't know how I feel about it. That alone surprises me.

I sip from my glass and Bella stills, the two middle fingers of her unbroken hand slipped between buttons on my shirt, her hand palmed against the steady thump of my heart. Her body is getting heavier against me as she starts to drift. I look down at her and carefully move her hair, sliding a thick lock of it back behind her ear.

"Scottish and Canadian…"

Her eyes open slowly, like it takes all her strength to lift her lids. "I know what you're thinking, Edward."

I bite the inside of my cheek. "Do you Miss Swan-LeBlanc?"

"I do."

"Pray-tell."

"I've waited on you, I've eaten with you. I've drunk with you…"

"Yes?"

"I've seen your liquor cabinet. It's full of me. You drink expensive scotch, and Crown Royal. That's Canadian, if I recall."

"You are claiming to be my favorite drink?"

"I am just saying - it's ironic."

"Please don't sing."

She smiles, faint in the darkness, her heavy lids lifted all the way up so that she can look at my face. "Don'tchya think?" She yawns. Then I yawn.

"That would explain why I can't stay sober." My free hand finds her shoulder, gently squeezing the small angle of her body.

"Have you… tried?"

"Honestly, the thought scares the ever-loving-fuck out of me."

"Are you afraid to try… or… afraid to try and fail?" Her voice is as small and as tentative as it's ever been.

The silence between us stretches out, putting distance between us, even though we sit as close as two people can probably get without the removal of clothes. Then she breaks the quiet with a question, completely off topic. "I read this book once. I think it was called… _The Einstein Factor…_ have you heard of it?"

"I don't think so."

"I think it was that book. I don't remember - I read it a long time ago. It was… well it was about like… all the little things that geniuses do that set them apart from us regular folk. I don't know why I read it. I think my mom was reading it for some reason… anyway. I remember how the book talked about this thing… image streaming, I think it was called. Like… stream of consciousness, as you fall asleep. You have to talk to someone. Or a recorder. Something that can hear you as sleep takes your mind."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"We should try it. You should talk to me… as you fall asleep, maybe then you wouldn't have nightmares."

I take a deep breath, my heart giddyuping to a breakneck pace. She presses her palm against it. Slight, fervent pressure. She knows. "Hey… it's okay. I'll do it. Okay? You be my recorder. I'm falling asleep anyway."

I know she is… her voice is soft and barely there already.

"What do you want to talk about?"

She falls quiet. And then she starts. In her small sleepy voice, impacted by pain and pain-killers both, she tells me about these huge conifers that she used to climb as a little girl. How her hands got covered in sap, how she was never ever afraid to fall. She talks about Lombard Street and trolleys and what San Francisco looks like from the East Bay. She tells me about Rice-A-Roni smiles and Alcatraz after dark.

Her stories are disintegrating into nonsense as her sentences get more and more strung out.

She tells me about climbing Christmas trees full of lights… lights that twinkle like the sun setting against the bay. How she can hold all the ocean inside her, how she can see all of my depths, everything under my surface. How she holds all of me inside of her. Because my eyes are green like the slime that gathers around the pillars that hold up the pier. She tells me about seals and how their bark calls her home, but she can't go home. She's trapped in a cage. Because cancers keep changing her life.

"Bella."

She starts awake and I can feel her heart thrumming. I wonder if this is what my heart sounded like when she spoke of nightmares. She looks at me with wide instantly-alert eyes.

"Edward?"

"I just… I felt I needed to bring you back. Your mind was not making a lot of sense."

"Was I talking that whole time?"

"Yes. About seals. Big, fat, brown ocean mammal-slugs, you called them." I laugh gently. "You love Christmas because it smells like nutmeg. And you talked about me, quite a bit. You called me a cancer."

"I'm sorry," she breathes. "I didn't…"

"No – it's ok. It wasn't wrong."

"It was wrong. I don't think of you as a cancer."

"Maybe not consciously. Don't apologize Bella, I enjoyed it."

"What did I say… about cancer… exactly."

"You said something like… how once again a cancer is changing your life. Taking healthy cells and rotting them."

"And I was talking about you?"

"I assume. And maybe your mother too?"

"Yeah… maybe." Her voice is tremulous so I change the subject for her, like she does with me when I need her to.

"I didn't know you could hold an ocean inside of you. I do now."

She chuckles gently against my chest. "Edward."

"Yes?"

"Stay. Don't disappear again."

"Are you asking me that… literally, Bella?"

"I don't know. I'm just asking."

I don't say anything, and she succumbs to sleep. This time with no words. This time with no shared imagery, just the steady in and out of her breathing, her body relaxed into mine.

My gaze finds Bella's shape, her strength all evaporated in her sleep. Everything about her slim body looks vulnerable. Her fine face, pressed trustingly into me. Despite it all, trusting. The intimacy inherent between us exists, still. Still. Her trust makes me feel like I can change. Every time I hold her I feel like I should try.

In this dark, quiet moment, lit only by Christmas lights and the activity of my mind, I can't help but acknowledge that I already am. Trying. To change.

I carefully pour another glass of bourbon, one handed, but I don't pick it up. Instead, I follow Bella into sleep.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

_Birds are circling over head. But these aren't Riley's beloved falcons. These are scavenger birds. These are carrion eaters. These come for all of us. These birds and the maggots and the bloat. I don't want to watch them swooping in graceful patterns overhead. Over my head. Over me. _

_I want to move and I can't. I want to breathe and I can't. I want to scream and I can't. And this body. I want to put it down but I can't. I want to look at him but I can't. _

_And then I do. But it's not the olive skin of the boy I knew. _

_It's Bella Swan. _

_I drop her and she crumples into the dirt. Her hair everywhere._

_No blood. There's no blood. _

_Where is the blood?_

"Edward. Shhhh. I've got you. It's okay. It's okay."

Her hand is on my face, something hard is stuck between us. It's her splint, digging into my chest. My eyes feel sludgy with sleep and tears. I've been crying again. In front of Bella, again.

I don't want to open my eyes and see her looking at me. I don't want to be this man. With this anger, this incessant fucking torment. This shame. I don't want to be this absolute coward. With this unending fear and this brain, like a broken record playing the worst parts of the songs I hate most. Over and over and over and over and over again.

I don't want to face her in all of my brokenness. But I do.

She sees it. Somehow she knows. And her mouth is kissing the corner of mine and then my cheek and my chin and up to my eyes. As she tells me it's okay. That I'm safe. That I'm okay. Cooing little endearments that are for the child I am in this moment. Her good hand wraps around into my hair and holds me. One small hand, not covering a fraction of the surface area I possess, and it feels like envelopment.

Like I can breathe.

She doesn't fall back asleep this time. I think she's afraid I'll leave. She talks to me again. She talks about fishing with her dad and how boring it can be. She describes the first fish she ever caught and how she had such a difficult time getting the hook out that she swore she would never do that to another animal. She tells me she feels like a hypocrite to this day because she eats everything her dad catches. She tells me about walking in the river with no shoes on and slipping on the mossy bottom, going down hard on her ass. How Leah laughed at her.

"Bella," I interrupt. "I'm not going to leave. You can go back to sleep."

Her face is just indistinct shapes in this light. But I can see it in my mind. All big, tired eyes and concern. "Why don't YOU go back to sleep, first."

Her tone tells me it's useless to argue with her. She's going to be fucking stubborn about this. I sigh and sit up, pulling off my uncomfortable dress shirt and draping it over the back of the couch before sliding back down, my hand on her arm, bringing her back into me. I doubt I will return to sleep, but I can placate her. "Okay. Keep talking to me?"

And she does.

She tells me about her apple tree. How, to her, it symbolizes renewal. Life. She tells me how a tree can look dead in the winter, but you break open a branch and it's green on the inside. It can weather the winter and bloom again. She starts to drift as I do, and the imagery spilling from her is creating wonder in me. She tells me about skipping stones across the surface of my eyes. I see myself as a glacier pond, seen from on high. I am frozen at the depths. I am surrounded by glimmering aspen trees, not Bella's conifers, nor her fruit trees. Trees with white bark and golden leaves. Impossible to climb. She tells me about one-winged swans that will never fly, so they can't go south for the winter.

Like the tree, they have to just weather it.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Something, a shift in the air, brings me awake. I can see light on the other side of my lids. Muted, but definitely daylight. And the smell of coffee. I crack my eyes and find myself wedged into the cushions of Bella's couch. A blanket has been thrown over me and all the blinds are drawn.

I close my eyes again, listening to the sound of the fridge being opened and closed. Water running. Pans quietly being set on the stove-top. The tip-tap of Jakes claws on the hardwood floors. I drift in and out, my body detached and sublimely heavy. The blanket around me comfortably scented.

I wake again to the pop and sizzle of bacon cooking. I wait for the slight roll and burble of my brain that usually accompanies waking. It doesn't come. I sit and bring my hands to my hair, tugging, orienting myself, contemplating my shoes, set neatly to the side of the couch. I vaguely remember kicking them off at some point in the wee hours. In the hours where Bella slept in the crook of my arm, fitted against me on this narrow couch like spoons in a drawer.

And I didn't dream. Not that I remember, anyway.

I get up and make my way to the kitchen, leaning against the wall. Bella is using her left hand to awkwardly eat cereal out of an oversized mug as she watches bacon fry in a pan in front of her. Her hair is wet. She sets her mug down and turns, catching sight of me. Her eyes. It's all there in her eyes. She's happy I'm here.

"Good morning."

I nod. She pours me a cup of coffee, steam wafting off the top, and gestures to an unopened carton of half 'n half on the counter.

I just woke up. And I'm already having another one of those moments. One of those moments where this feels normal. Where this feels like what home should feel like. I turn and find the small bathroom and shut myself into it. The urge to escape ignited within me, and this is probably the least rude thing for me to do. It's normal to go to the bathroom in the morning. It isn't normal to immediately call a fucking cab and wait outside for it to arrive.

The bathroom is small and neat. Except for the shower. It looks like she uses this tub to wash Jake. It's got dog shampoo and a leash inside the curtain. I lean against the wall and try to work out how I handle this. How I handle what I feel right now.

I feel like crying.

I hate the big mirror over the sink. Big in this small space. Unavoidable. Reiterating to me that I cannot escape myself. I have to look at me. I have no choice.

And I have to look at her.

I have to do more than look at her.

I have to fuck her. I said that I would.

My mind spins a million different speeds. Maybe she won't even know the difference. Fucking is love making is fucking. It's all an animal need. It's all a basic human exchange.

And I want her. I want her in so many ways I don't even understand them all. I want her in a very permanent way. I want to be someone who deserves her in a permanent way. I want to see her look at me like that every morning. I want her space and her air and her songs and her hair and her light and her life. I want it to wrap itself around mine.

I want to erase the last two weeks, the last five years, the last ten years, and start fresh.

Do I deserve a fresh start? I don't fucking know. I don't have clue fucking one.

I just know… that it's highly likely that I won't be able to walk away from this. That there is a line, somewhere right near where I currently stand. A point of no return. Stepping over it is a fucking commitment. I may have already blurrily missed it. I know, without a fucking doubt, without a fraction of it, that if I have her once, I will need her again. And again.

A transference of addiction. From women to woman. That woman. It's fucking terrifying. I can't move forward. I can't stop still in this moment. And I can't fucking move backwards. I can't move. I can't fuck her and walk away. I can't fuck her and forget her.

I've been in this bathroom for a long time now. I have to go back out there. I have to start with facing her. Again.

Somehow it's not that different from facing myself.

I splash some water on my face and swish out my mouth. I breathe. I turn the handle of the door and leave the bathroom, stepping into the still hallway. The house is silent. Jake is lying on the floor outside the bathroom door. His tail flumps against the wood when he sees me. The kitchen is empty. The pots and pans are in the sink, submerged in soapy water. There's a plate of food on the counter next to the coffee and the half 'n half. And a note.

_I didn't know how you like your eggs so I just scrambled them. I hope that's okay. I will be back around eleven. Fair warning. _

And under that is the number for Metro Yellow-Cab.

She fucking knows. She knows I don't know how to handle this. She isn't going to make me.

This moment. This moment in time is the line. I've crossed it.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

I feel trapped in this room. Trapped by bookcases full of texts, framed Ansel Adams pictures, and the soft illumination from the table top lamps. This room with its deep blue curtains and pillows. Deep blue like Bella's favorite color.

I know it's supposed to be comfortable, and it would be if I were here for any other purpose.

Rachel is watching my face, her reading glasses on a cord around her neck. Her white hair softly falling to her shoulders. Riley has her big, hazel eyes. Big, kind eyes.

"Do you want to start with what prompted you to call me, Edward?"

I don't.

I don't want to start with anything or even be here. She can see it in my face.

"Edward. This is a place where you can talk about anything you want. Anything at all. I may prompt you or ask questions at times, but please don't feel that you ever have to tell me anything you aren't ready to discuss. Okay?"

I nod.

"This should always be a safe place for you. I hope you trust that I am not here to force anything from you. I'm just here to listen and help, if I can."

I nod again.

"How old are you? Do you mind my asking?"

"Thirty-three."

"And your birthday?"

"August."

"Are you a Leo?"

I nod. She smiles. "That isn't a diagnosis, in case you were wondering."

A nervous chuckle escapes me.

"Do you have any siblings?"

I nod. "Three."

"Big family. Where do you fall in the birth order?" She cocks her head to the side. "Oldest?"

I nod again.

"Brothers or sisters?"

"Both."

"Are you close to them?"

"One. My sister."

"And her name?"

"Alice."

"Is she closest to you in age?"

"No, she's… furthest, actually."

"Baby of the group?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to tell me about her?"

I shrug. "She's half my size and a bully. She's been trying to get me to do this for a long time."

"Why?"

"She… she knows. She knows me. She knows I'm not me anymore."

Rachel is quiet for a few moments. Then she says, "You're not you? You changed at some point?"

I nod.

"Could it be that you and she have just, grown differently?"

"No."

"So, you think she is right?"

I nod.

"Was it something she said that encouraged you to make this appointment?"

"No. It was… something I did."

"Do you want to talk about that?"

"I… it wasn't my sister. It was… another girl. I'm an alcoholic." I rub my fingers over my mouth, not sure how or when I decided to say that. But I keep going. "And not just that."

She jots a note down on her pad and I look at my lap. "What else?"

"I… don't know if I can do this, actually. All I can think about right now is… getting a drink. Somehow."

"We're almost done. How often do you drink?"

"Every day."

"For how long?"

"Years."

"Why do feel like you need to drink every day?"

My chest hurts like it's clamped in a vice. We aren't almost done. We haven't even begun.

"This is a safe place, Edward. There is no judgment here. Do you believe that?"

"I'm afraid."

"Here? Now?"

"Yes and always."

"Always? Do you remember being afraid as a child?"

"Not like I am now…"

My fists are in my hair, and my jaw is starting to ache. I can't do this.

"Edward. Your paperwork says that you're a veteran, you fought in Operation Enduring Freedom?"

I snort.

"Were you an alcoholic before the war?"

"No."

"Do you want to talk about the war another time?"

"I don't ever want to talk about it."

"Why don't we go to something you do want to talk about? Okay? You seem very tense right now. Is there something… besides alcohol… that makes you feel better?"

"Sex."

"Do you want to talk about your sex life?"

"Not really."

"What else. Music maybe?"

All my music is wrapped up in Bella. I nod. "This is really hard for me."

"I see that. Why don't you tell me about something that makes you feel safe? Tell me about your favorite drink, if you like. Let's do that now, okay? Can you think of something?"

I think of the full bottle of Crown in my liquor cabinet.

"Describe it to me, okay? Pretend I've never seen or heard of this thing before. Tell me how it makes you feel. Can you do that?"

I nod. "It's whiskey. It's deep amber in color. It looks like it would taste like burnt sugar. Like thin caramel but it doesn't. It burns the tongue when you drink it. The scent is… like candy. Hot candy. It warms me from the inside."

My eyes are closed and behind my lids is a commercial quality slow-motion pour. The liquid finding the edge of the tumbler and splashing back into the glass. I have to suck back the saliva to keep talking. I cover my mouth with my fist. "It's like being wrapped in an electric blanket, on the inside. And it's bullet proof. The first glass takes the edge off. It takes the tension from my muscles, which are taut all day. I can relax. I can… breathe… really."

The picture in my head melts away, replaced by Bella and every time she touches me. "There's another place… where I feel safe."

"Where is that?"

"With a girl, one in particular."

"Is that why you're here, Edward?"

"I think so."

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>

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><p><strong>AN: **

**Hi. You came back. I'm glad. :)**

**A couple of quick things. **

**Dragonfly336 is my beta and an all around amazing lady who gives so generously of her time and effort. Not just to me, but to the fandom. Thank you.**

**BelieveItOrNot is my cleaner. We decided to call her this because she storms into my chapters like Harvey Keitel equipped and ready to "solve problems."**

**Both these gals make this story better. **

**And to everyone reading, reviewing and romping in the FB group, posting pics, thoughts and songs. I hope you can feel my gratitude. I wish I could tell you all how awesome you are. **

**I've put the link for our Facebook group and some other stuff up on my blog: ireenh. blogspot. com. (Take the spaces out and find us!)**

**AND FINALLY**

**I don't know exactly where FFn's lines get drawn for content. But if I get pulled from this site - find me in the forest: adifferentforest. com**

**Much love!**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author.******

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

Is that alright?  
>Give my gun away when it's loaded.<br>That alright - yeah?  
>If you don't shoot it how am I supposed to hold it?<p>

~9 Crimes by Damien Rice

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><p>***BPOV***<p>

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><p>My house is quiet when I get back, the strong scent of bacon hanging in the air. My house never smells like bacon. It makes my stomach rumble despite the two bowls of granola I ate just an hour and a half ago. I set my bag down on the table, and even though I can tell he's gone, I call out, "Edward?"<p>

Jake wags his tail.

I round the corner into the kitchen and find my pots and pans scrubbed and lying on a towel to dry. Leaned against them is the plate that held Edward's breakfast accompanied by his coffee cup. The sink is empty, the rubber plug next to the faucet shiny and wet. The note I left for him is propped against the coffee pot, his sloped letters form two words under mine.

_Thank you._

I try to imagine him with his sleeves rolled up, his hands soapy, his fingers gripping my scrubbie as he washes my dishes. It gives my stomach a quick little nudge to acknowledge that he wanted to do something nice for me. Either that or he felt he owed me. Or he knows how hard it is to wash dishes with one hand. Or maybe he is just fastidious.

In any case, it shows me that he thinks of me, or… he thinks of others. That he isn't just the self-consumed sex-tornado he seems to be.

Like when he got me the crackers and soda, and when he took my car full of crates and used silverware to Jane's for me. I wonder what Jane made of THAT.

When he didn't leave last night. I know he wanted to. I could feel it radiating off of him in waves. The desire to run. Escape. Flee. Hide.

There again this morning.

I should have expected that.

I watched him as he turned his back to me to find solace in my bathroom. He moved like his whole body was in pain. The soft sound of the door meeting the frame, tightly held control, a mask. The absolute silence emanating from within, all I needed to know. No water running or other more conspicuous bathroom sounds. Just silence.

I wondered what demons were cornering him in there.

Then I realized. It was me. I was the demon cornering him in there.

The realization rippled through me, the weight of it like a heavy stone sinking below the smooth surface of a still pond. I've often tried to understand Edward Cullen and the things he does, the things he deals with, what goes on under all that beautiful hair. In that moment I only understood one thing. I should stop trying. It's obvious he doesn't want me to. How many different ways does he have to show me?

I imagined myself in that bathroom. I would just want me to go away.

So I did.

I don't know if it was the right thing to do, but as soon as I realized he didn't want to see me… I realized I didn't want to be seen. I was running, too. To O'Reillys where I got new wiper blades and an air filter. Then to the pharmacy where I picked up some prescriptions.

And now, I have to work.

I can see the finish line, seductively beckoning to me from my future. I want to race to meet it. I want to be there now, exhausted and dirty and putting my feet up and watching mindless television. Maybe even falling asleep on the couch. I want to be done working. Ten long hours and I will be… for weeks. I can't wait. I can't wait.

I go back to my room and change, pulling on clean slacks and a tank top. I press my shirt and wipe my tie clean with a damp cloth. I forego makeup. What's the point? Instead, I liven up my appearance with some candy cane earrings.

I don't know how I am going to get through this day, but I will. I am so close to done. So close.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I haven't been home for five minutes when my front door swings open and Leah strides in.

Jake wiggles his whole body around her in eager approval as she stands in my entryway, her big dark eyes raking over me, taking in my splint and probably the fatigue that everyone keeps feeling the need to point out to me. The next thing I know, I'm engulfed in her arms. Her woodsy scent envelopes me, her warm heart sending heat through her skin, through her thick winter coat, right into my blood. I didn't realize how cold I've been until this moment. This moment where her familiar scent and her wordless love thaw me.

I wrap my arms around her and we hold each other.

"You smell like chicken grease and fried food," she says into my hair.

"You smell like Leah."

She laughs quietly, and her collarbone seems to reverberate the sound right into my ear. "I love you, B."

"I love you, _El_," I say, putting emphasis on her initial. I never call her El.

She continues to talk, her jaw moving against the side of my head. "Do I need to say it? There are other men out there. Good men, capable of seeing your beauty. You are beautiful, Bella."

I pull back and look at her. She has naked concern all over her face. "Leah–what are you babbling about?"

She studies my face and I can see the _I'm going to give it to you straight _look invade her eyes. "You look like shit. I mean, I like your candy cane earrings and all, but they don't hide the huge bags under your eyes or the fact that your hand is broken. Which–I heard about from Embry. He plans to take advantage of your being a cripple next weekend. And I quote, 'Peach is going down.' As if." I smile as Leah pauses. I forgot that last year I dominated him in Mario Party, TWICE, and he pledged that next Christmas he would kick my ass. I'm about to tell Leah that I could out-perform Embry even if I'd broken both my hands and had my eyes pecked out when she goes on. "So, did you punch him in the face? I would've kneed him in the jewels, personally. What did he say, B? Whatever he said… you know… he's just a slut. You know that, right?"

I look up at her and realize that she thinks I told Edward, that he has rejected me and my need is for comfort.

I am so in for it.

I feel the corners of my eyes grow warm and I know my blood is about to betray me by turning my face to a red flag of guilt. "I haven't told him yet."

She looks confused. Her _I'm going to tie his shoelaces together _look fading into a _You, Miss, are in serious trouble _look. "I thought you were going to... like two weeks ago?"

"I thought so, too. But I didn't."

One of her eyes narrows slightly and I swear I can feel the intensity of her perusal burrowing into a spot right under my left eyebrow. "All right. What the heck is going on here?"

I shake my head. I have no idea how to answer that question. First, I just don't know what is going on, and second, what I DO know, I feel highly disinclined to talk about. Leah lets go of me completely and turns to rummage in my fridge. She pulls out peanut butter and a loaf of bread as she says, "Sorry. I'm starved. And I can tell I am going to be here for a while because you and I haven't talked in ages and something is up. Where is your jelly? I don't see… Bella. Why the fuck is there bacon in your fridge?"

"I'm an adult Leah. I can eat bacon once in a while."

She gives me the _You're full of shit and we both know it_ look. She underlines the look with words. "Bella, you are so full of it. You don't eat bacon. You are like, the only person on the face of the planet who can resist its bacony charms. You have more self-discipline regarding food than anyone I know… and when you do cheat it's with cinnamon candy, not meat. So… spill." She finds the jelly and sets it on the counter before opening the silverware drawer and pulling out a knife.

"It's complicated." My voice sounds as pathetic as my choice of words. Leah nods as she scrapes the knife around the inside of the peanut butter jar.

"It's ALWAYS complicated," she agrees, slapping the two sides of bread together and licking the knife before setting it in the sink. Her raised brows tell me she wants me to go on. I start unknotting my tie and sliding it out from under my collar as she heads into the living room. "And there's a man's dress shirt on your couch," she says with her mouth full.

I look towards her, and sure enough, Edward forgot his shirt here. I fight the urge to snatch it and bring it to my nose. Instead I say, "How do you know that isn't mine?"

Leah snorts. It's a full nasal sound, and I'm surprised she doesn't choke on her sandwich. "Please, Bella. You wear like a child's size button up."

"No I don't."

"This thing is way too big for you," she remarks as she picks it up by the collar, tossing it to me. I catch it and I can smell Edward before I even put my face into it. I have no control. I should, absolutely, refrain from smelling it in front of Leah, but I physically can't. I feel like an adolescent girl being handed her boyfriend's Letterman jacket. I want to languish inside of any part of him I can.

I feel that stone sinking inside me again. Edward Cullen is not my boyfriend.

I don't know what we are to each other, at this point. You would probably be hard-pressed to even call us friends. So, I try to play it off like my face itches and I just needed both hands to scratch it, but when I meet Leah's eyes she's nodding at me. Her nod turns into a shake of her head, and she clucks her tongue before falling full-bodied onto my couch.

I leave the shirt draped over one of my dining room chairs and sit down on the couch with her.

"You're in love with him."

"Please, Leah. I'm not THAT stupid." I would have to be worse than stupid. To fall in love. With a man like that. I would have to be the world's biggest fool, bar none.

Worse than that.

"It isn't about smart or stupid. Love is a crazy thing that doesn't make any sense."

"This… would definitely be stupid. Very stupid. In fact, I'm not even sure he likes me, Lee. Sometimes… I think he does… and then I feel like it can't possibly be the case. Sometimes he's funny and warm and accessible. And other times… he's cold and… cruel, even. I wouldn't fall in love with someone who is cruel. I wouldn't."

"You don't need to convince ME."

"I know."

"I just wonder how he hasn't found out yet. I sort of pegged Cullen as all hands and eyes and cock. You know… how has he not copped a big plasticky feel yet? I mean, you've been dating for - what? A while now. I remember walking in on you guys getting fairly fresh on Halloween."

"He… did. Sort of."

"He did what?"

"He copped a feel. I got lucky… he went left instead of right. Or, rather… he went to his right." My shoulders dip in a gesture of _his right is my left_. Leah gets it. And I can tell by her face that I'm about to get it too. She points what's left of her sandwich at me.

"You need to tell him. He's going to hit the roof if he goes left and comes up with rubber. And it's just a matter of time."

I sigh. I may be a liar most of the time lately, but not with Leah. Never with Leah. She is my sister, more than my best friend. My love for her is bottomless.

"I sort of… wanted him to hit the roof," I confess. This is about as far into my cockamamie scheme as I'm willing to go. I don't think I can look Leah in the face and tell her that I wanted to actually use my body as a weapon of disgust against him. At this point, it doesn't even make sense to me. I guess I thought… maybe confronting him with it, watching him realize he had to actually perform, would scare some humility into him. And I also secretly hoped it would hurt him in some way. But I realize now, a situation like that only hurts me.

Add this to all the things making me feel foolish right now.

She just stares at me. I fiddle with one of the straps on my splint.

"He… well. He did something. I guess, it wasn't that bad… certainly it wasn't anything I didn't already know about him. Really–he practically came out and warned me. So, I should have expected it. But I didn't. Not that. I didn't expect that." The stone that keeps sinking within me is right up in my throat now. It's heavy and hard to swallow around.

"What, B? What did he do?"

"I don't really… I don't want to talk about it… yet. Okay? But, I was going to tell him–when I told you I planned to, I meant it. I just, after that, I never got the chance."

Leah nods. "He broke things off?"

"In a way. Yes."

"Why is his shit here, then?"

I cover my eyes with my hands, my splint pressing hard against my cheekbone. "I don't know… because I'm an idiot who didn't get the hint."

Leah's grip on my arm is soft as she pulls my hands down and looks into my eyes. Hers are dark, nearly black. Beautiful eyes. Everyone I know has the most beautiful eyes. Leah's are like midnight, Sam's are like sunlight, Edward's are like backlit jade, Jasper's are a muddy forest pool. Mine are just brown.

"You're not an idiot, Bella."

"Right now, I feel like one."

Leah's midnight eyes are sad when she asks, "Like how I felt… when I told Sam that I couldn't see her anymore? Remember?"

I sigh and nod. That had been an awful time for Leah. A quiet, self-possessed young woman who never, ever thought she would fall in love with another woman.

"She made me feel things that scared the crap out of me. I'm ashamed to say, now, that she also… embarrassed me. Or… I was embarrassed… not that I was gay. More, to put my sexuality out there so blatantly. I was afraid."

"I remember."

And I do. I remember Leah crying on my bed, telling me through tears that she didn't know how to deal with this. How, as a woman, people may watch or disapprove when a man kisses you in public. But when two women do it, EVERYONE sees. When two girls are demonstrative in public, they aren't looked at as two people in love. They're seen as two girls acting inappropriately. It isn't hard to see what they think of you; it's always all over their faces. They watch you. It's hard for Leah to be scrutinized all the time. To know they imagine her and Sam having sex, their expressions interested, or disgusted, or full of censure – like Leah and Sam are gay because Katy Perry is a bad influence on girl-kind.

She would keep distance between herself and Sam when they were out in public, and then Sam's demeanor would change, reflective of Leah's hesitancy. Leah was afraid to tell her that it wasn't her, not knowing how to explain that it was everyone else. That it was being watched all the time, having her sex-life blatantly contemplated by strangers.

"When I told her… when I told Sam I needed space… Bella. You should have seen the look on her face."

I did see it. She came here, too. Crying, like Leah. Sobbing. I cried too. Because I can understand what it would be like to try to stay away from Leah, and I don't love her the way Sam does. Sam adores her. You can see it. You can feel it. She lives and breathes Leah. You can tell, that in Sam's eyes, she is the only thing in the world. Sometimes, it hurts to see the enormity of her love. I know Leah feels the same way, but Leah is private. Leah is serious. Leah doesn't wear her heart on her sleeve. Not the way Samantha does.

"I was an idiot," Leah breathes, obviously remembering how the weeks of separation took their toll on Sam. And herself.

"Was?"

"Shut up, dork."

I find my smile and Leah gives me hers in response. "I'm just saying. It scared the shit out of me. I'm lucky… God, I am SO lucky, that Sam forgave me."

"She could never _not_ forgive you, Leah. You're her universe." I hate the tears that flood my eyes. I smile, trying to show Leah that they are happy tears, not tears of envy. Not the despair I feel right now.

"It was a long time ago now… but my point is. Love… makes us do really stupid things."

"It wasn't love that caused you to push Sam away, Leah. It was fear."

"Okay… fear then. But love is what gave me that fear. What did Edward say to you, just that… he didn't want to see you anymore?"

"No. He didn't say anything. He sort of… showed me… that he didn't want to see me anymore. That he wanted to SEE someone else."

Leah's face is a stony mask. Her lips tighten. "I am going to kick that guy, myself. He showed you? What did he do – make out with another girl in front of-" Leah is probably the most intellectual, most logical girl I've ever known. And I can tell by her expression that I don't need to confirm or deny anything. She has enough pieces to solve the puzzle without my help. "That son of a bitch."

"It's not a big deal, Lee. I swear."

"You are bold-faced lying to me right now. What the fuck is he doing in your house?"

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I shake my head. I have no logical explanation for anything that has transpired since Edward showed me he wasn't interested in me.

"Bella, look at me. What the fuck are you doing? Where is your self-worth? This man is trash. Move on."

"He isn't trash, Lee. And a moment ago, you were telling me… I don't know… you were justifying your own stupid behavior by sweeping it under the carpet of 'love-makes-us-crazy.' Why does that apply to you and Sam and not me and Edward?"

"Because that man doesn't love you, Bella."

Her words are like a punch in the chest.

"I know that."

"If he did… maybe. Maybe. But he doesn't. I don't know him, but I sure as hell know he doesn't deserve your love. Nothing. He doesn't deserve any of you. Stop wasting yourself on him."

The fingers of my right hand are in my hair, the dark fabric of my splint obscuring my vision. I speak more to it than to Leah when I say, "I don't know if you've noticed, Leah. But they aren't exactly lining up for me."

"So you should give yourself to this one because he is the only one knocking? You will take whatever some slime has to offer you? No. Try again, Bella. There are GOOD men out there. Your dad is. My dad was. Jasper. Seth. Good men who know how to treat a woman. Who would treat you right." I can tell how passionately Leah believes this as her hand curls around my ankle and she shakes it slightly in emphasis.

"Stop. Those men… your dad, my dad, are irrelevant to my situation. Jasper… yes… he is a good man. He loves me. But he didn't fall IN love with me. And he always knew. Seth doesn't even look at me like I'm a woman. He knows. Mike used to turn me around and fuck me from behind because-"

"Enough of this. Mike was a fucking tool and doesn't count."

"Mike was a man. He counts."

"Pffff. Hardly. And Seth looks at you like a sister."

"Leah. All men who know look at me like a sister." I know how pathetic I sound, as pathetic as I feel. I am not going to cry. The stone in my throat is a boulder now. Huge.

"Dmitri knew."

"That was different. And in any case, that didn't work out either."

"Long distance relationships are hard."

"Yeah. I'm sure that's why he stopped calling me. I'm sure that's it. I'm sure it had nothing to do with me losing my tit."

"I hate it when you talk this way."

"This is the way it IS. Dmitri… was a good guy. But he was seventeen. You don't expect your girlfriend to battle cancer. Not in high school."

"You pushed him away. You didn't give him the chance to show you that he could deal with it."

"I moved to Seattle. He moved on. That's all."

"One minute you let your cancer dictate how you live your life, the next minute you deny it. All the time you let it excuse the way you treat other people."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Stop HIDING Bella. You are a survivor. If you're going to let cancer define you… let it be in a good way… and not all this wretched self-loathing you are wallowing in."

"Fuck you, Leah."

"Don't give me your _I don't understand what it's like to be you_, garbage. You are ten years, TEN years, healthy. Stop thinking of yourself as sick. Stop thinking of yourself as a consolation prize. Men don't keep you down, B. YOU do. And now you're chasing after some shallow peacock of a man, knowing, KNOWING that he won't be satisfied with you. Even if you had both your breasts. A man like that is a cheater, B. You are setting yourself up for failure on purpose. So that you can keep pushing people away and keep feeling sorry for yourself."

Leah has this thing she does where she calls a duck a duck. Usually this isn't a problem for us. But in this moment I forget about all the real reasons why I can't let go of Edward Cullen and all I hear from her is truth. All my strength, all my pep-talks, all my normal reinforcements, all crumble into exactly what she claims they are. Me keeping myself down. All I see is how pathetically foolish I am, and it's more than I can deal with right now. "I think you need to leave," I say in a small voice.

"You have no problem asking ME to leave, but Edward Cock-sucking Cullen gets to stay when he wants?" Leah is pissed now.

"Don't call him that."

She nods angrily. "And now you are going to defend him. Rrrrrrr. You're making me so frustrated right now."

"You are the one that stormed over here, apparently to tell me how much I'm fucking up. As if I didn't already know."

"I came over here because I thought you needed me. What did you do to your hand, anyway?"

"I fell."

"You lie." This is why I don't lie to Leah. She sees through me before I even speak. She sees the lie form on my face. Heck, she probably feels it as I guiltily debate it inside my chest.

"Look, Leah. If I frustrate you right now. I honestly don't give a shit. I didn't want to involve you in my 'wallowing.' You involved yourself. Yes. I am struggling right now. Yes. I am lying. Yes. I am defending Edward Cullen. Yes. Yes. Yes. I… I'm just… an asshole. Okay?"

"Right now. Yes. A little bit. You either need to stop seeing him, or you need to tell him. You need to get yourself back together. And you need to stop separating yourself from others using cancer as an excuse. Stop this masochistic behavior. It isn't healthy."

"You need to stop telling me how I _need_ to behave." I usually don't mind Leah telling me what I need. She usually knows.

She looks at me. Her face is a mirror of mine, minus the angry red I feel burning my eyebrows. "Fine. Thanks for the sandwich. I'll see you later."

When the door closes behind her, my anger peaks and turns immediately to pain. I haven't fought with Leah… well. Like that? Ever. I think the last argument we had was about the migratory patterns of an African swallow. It ended when Sam asked Leah why she was so wise in the ways of science and gave her a look that I interpreted as something akin to, 'My liege!"

I lock my doors and kill the lights. Jake follows me into bed where I curl up into myself and stare out the window at the bright cold moon. Tears trail down the side of my face, dampening the pillow beneath me.

I AM wallowing. I don't know how to stop.

The fact is… Leah, to some extent, is right. It's not my surviving cancer that defines me. It's the aftermath. It's this feeling of being half myself, of being a breast shy of enough for a healthy relationship with anyone. It's thinking I know how others will react to me based on the limited experience I have. It's judging men, not based on their actions, but the actions of their predecessors.

I don't know how to be whole. I don't know how to carry myself with pride instead of fear. I thought I did. I thought I was doing okay. I don't know, now. One thing I do know… Leah doesn't know either. She can empathize, she can imagine, but she doesn't KNOW. It's one thing to delve into my experience now and then as an outsider. It's another to live it in every moment. She can vent her anger on me, and she may be right. But she still doesn't know.

And that's part of it, I guess. Part of how I separate myself. Part of how I see myself as different from other women. Every moment of every day.

Everything I do. Everything. Like hanging mistletoe in the archway of my hall. Why? I do it out of tradition, and sometimes Sam will teasingly try to corner me underneath it. Does she do it because having it hanging there makes HER uncomfortable? Because she knows that there is no one else to try to trap me there and kiss me? I mean, why do I put it there? There is no point. Like owning matched underwear. No one sees it.

Do I hang it there, because I want to remind everyone that I'm alone while they are happy? I didn't think so. I sort of… just put it there every year. We always put it there, even when I was a girl and would come up every other year for Christmas. My dad, even living alone as he did, always hung it there, saying under his mustache, "Boy Scouts twisted my arm."

They don't twist my arm. I just buy it because I always buy it. I hang it there because I always hang it there. It's like the wreath that comes out of the octagonal box in the garage and goes right on the hook over the door.

I am so lost right now. I thought I knew me. I thought I was a good person. Maybe good and bad don't matter. Maybe just being whole matters. If I know anything right now, it's that I can't expect another person to make me whole. I have to be whole on my own, if I want to have a healthy relationship with anyone. I cannot expect another person to fill the gaps in me, make me better. I have to be better first.

And I want to be.

Maybe Mike was right. Maybe he gave me those pamphlets because he knew that I could never be fully functional in a relationship with a man because of the choice I'd made. Maybe I've held a grudge against him for something that was my doing all along.

Because, let's face it, I was never normal in that relationship. When half of the relationship is unhealthy… the whole thing is. Maybe he cared about me and wanted me to fix a problem that was preventing us from progressing on more than just sexual levels. Maybe Mike was trying to help ME, not himself, and all I saw was an insult. All I saw was his need for a woman with two breasts. Of course he wanted a woman with two breasts. Of course he did. I want to BE a woman with two breasts. Maybe he saw that.

No… I'm not wrong about Mike. He wasn't a bad guy, but I don't think he was acting out of concern for me. He never once told me he loved me, and I didn't love him. The way he touched me, especially when I contrast it to the way Edward touches me, was perfunctory.

Dmitri definitely cared about me. And I cared about him. It was never passionate between us; it was gentler, comfortable teenage exploration. We were friends for a long time, since we were little, and that friendship naturally progressed to flirting with something more. Slowed by our uncertainty. He was shy, in an odd way, and I was oblivious.

I was just seventeen, both of us fresh into our senior year of high school when he hesitantly asked me to go to Homecoming with him. I had agreed right away, assuming we would go together as friends, like we had to our junior prom the year before. He took a deep breath and asked me to _GO_-go with him to the dance.

"Go-go? Like, date-date? Like… kissing-kissing?"

He had laughed nervously and said yeah, quickly qualifying it with, "But only if you want to, Izz."

"Well, sure."

He gave me his small, quiet smile.

"Are we together?" I asked, unsure.

"Do you want to be? People think we are, anyway."

That was true. He was Phil's nephew, Henry's son, and we went to the same schools. We climbed trees together, hunted non-existent tarantulas in his backyard, went to the wharf together to eat clam chowder, studied together, ditched together. I took Greek because he did. He joined swim team because I did.

I was a late bloomer. Late to bloom, quick to doom. As soon as my bud opened, it was discovered to be diseased.

He took my virginity in a fumble of laughter and teenage timidity, two days before I was diagnosed. He stayed close to me through it all. Through my surgery and the death of my mom. I couldn't tell if he clung close because he thought that is what a boyfriend is supposed to do, or if he loved me. I wondered often, but I never asked. I was afraid that if I asked, we would have some kind of talk that ruined our friendship. That he would ask me if _I_ loved _him_, and at that time, all I knew was that while I loved him, I honestly didn't know if I was IN love with him.

We were so young, just kids really, learning to be adults. Trying on adult hats and gloves and checking ourselves out in the mirror to see how they fit. His awkwardness and my inability to communicate precluded knowing.

But he had tears in his eyes when I left with my dad. He kissed me chastely and asked me not to forget about him. He asked me if I wanted him to come to Seattle. That he would apply at UDub. I don't know if he ever did. He got accepted to Penn State on a fencing scholarship.

He was always so gentle with me, like he thought his touch could break me. Especially after, like he didn't know if I wanted to be touched.

Touch. In one word, it's everything I want.

Of all the things I crave in my loneliness, the one that hammers away at me most is just to touch and be touched.

Sam touches Leah every day. With love. Leah gets to touch Sam every day.

Such a seemingly small thing. But I yearn for it, longing that is bone deep, soul deep. More than the desire to be loved. To give love. Leah can try to imagine what it's like to go years not being touched, it's physically painful. There are times when my skin screams for contact, when everything under my skin churns with an insistent desperation that keeps me awake at night.

I ache for it. I ache just to feel someone.

The need is physical, arising from my body, the impact of it takes its toll on my state of mind. My waking dreams are of being held, being kissed, being filled, my body as a mechanism of relief for someone else. Not a broken mechanism, but a functional one.

I've gotten good at ignoring it. Running it out. Music helps.

And then, fucking Edward Cullen baited me. Teased me. Offered me a cup of golden relief.

The temptation of having Edward Cullen just use me, my body, makes my skin hum with demand. I need it. At times I feel like I'm at a point where I don't care if he likes me or not, or what he is, or anything that he has said or done. If I can just get him to whore himself to me, just once, well… sometimes… that is a trade I am ready to make. The thought of it, the thought of him, of witnessing him in a heightened state of arousal, the contact of so much of his body, pressed to mine… well… After that, he can pass me in the hall not meeting my eye, not talking to me, fine. For just once. A trade. He can ignore me, after_ I_ use _him_.

Of course, that isn't what would happen at all. There is no just once, not without pity or disgust or anger. Not without questions. In my mental meanderings, my quick fuck turns to rubbish as I tell him, ask him to do it, and then end up the one girl on the planet for whom Edward Cullen cannot perform.

I can't do that. Better not to know. Better to always have the fantasy of it, not the reality.

I am _not_ going to consider it anymore.

I can start over. I just have to get back to square one. Away from all this doubt. All this stupidity. All this torment and want.

Because want, is tempered by the understanding that it's a chore to love me. In every sense of the word. In every sense.

It's a chore to love myself.

I thought I was doing the best I could with the hand I had been dealt. But maybe not.

Maybe… I am an asshole.

Maybe that is why Edward decided I wasn't worth the time. I mean… I sort of… get defensive easily… and am often sarcastic when I should be serious. Sometimes I say and do things I don't mean. And I get evasive and truculent. Really, he has rejected me a couple of times now, and he doesn't even know that my right bra cup is full of synthetic breast. I've kept him at arm's length out of fear.

Maybe it's been easy to blame my physiognomy for something that is wrong with me as a person. Maybe I'm overlooking the real problems.

I am the sound of one hand clapping. Silent.

I get out of bed and head to my desk in the spare room. I switch on the computer and watch it boot up. I click the Chrome icon, go into my Gmail and start a new message.

To: BTanner M.D.

From: BellaSwan

Re: Referral Needed

_Good Evening Dr. Tanner,_

_At our last appointment we talked about my mental health and you suggested that I look into continuing to go to meetings. My former support group is all the way in Tacoma and I was wondering if you could refer me to a therapist or a support group closer to Maple Leaf. Also – I broke my hand and need to have a follow up in 2 weeks according to VM. Can you get me in the schedule?_

_Thanks,_

_Bella Swan_

I hit send and close my email.

I'm not supposed to drink. But I go to the cabinet and pull out my perpetually full bottle of wild turkey, decreased quite a bit since Friday. Between me and Edward, most of the bottle is gone.

I'm supposed to find ways to decrease stress. Well, tonight, again… it's going to be alcohol. The mechanism of my relief.

Leah and Mike are right. I put myself here, I keep myself here. I have to free myself.

I have to step off this volatile path and wander the garden a while. I have to smell roses and find caterpillars and pluck new summer fruit from branches heavy with it. I have to find myself again. I need help to do that… because right now, I feel like I can't get back to caring about me.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

'Twas the week before Christmas and all through my building, not a creature was stirring... except me.

And the auto repossession place down the hall which is staffed year round.

Merry Christmas - we are still going to tow your car.

Merry Christmas - you live alone with a dog and a shitload of books.

Merry Christmas - you broke your fucking hand in a boxing match with music of all fucking things.

Merry Christmas – your best friend is pissed at you.

I start slitting open mail and forming stacks of bills, checks and solicitations on my desk.

Of course, my mind wanders to Edward Cullen. He wasn't in on Monday, or yesterday and I think I'm glad for it. Glad that I don't have to try to figure out how to behave around him. I've pondered long how to give him the message that I've backed off without actually having to say it, because somehow, saying it recalls my actions, my words. Things I don't want to go back to. Moments I'd rather forget.

As horrid as I feel about my performance at Virago, as embarrassed as I feel about sharing an orgasm with someone to whom it means little, I feel worse about my neediness the next night. About all the things I said, the things I almost said, his pain, how it felt when he held me. How full I felt after sleeping in his arms for the night. What it was like to wake and realize the warm hard pillow beneath me was his bicep. My delight in the simple act of making him breakfast. It all makes me feel, still, persistently foolish. I can feel the apples of my cheeks grow warm just thinking of it.

How ridiculous I am, to be having such a hard time getting over a man… with whom… I've actually shared very little. A man who not only runs from me, but also hides.

I find myself wondering how he manages the women he sleeps with. I can't be the only woman to witness his nightmares. I can't be the only woman who wants to comfort him, who sees the boy within the man. Who sees him trying to hide. Women are perceptive, I am no different. And our instinct is to help.

Maybe this is why his relationships, or whatever he calls them, end. Maybe it isn't boredom as Victoria suggested to me. Maybe he is uncomfortable with what happens in a shared bed that isn't sexual. He can probably push a woman back a few times, saying he doesn't want to talk about his nightmares, but that only holds curiosity at bay for so long. Or caring. I can't be the only one who sees an injured creature and wants to drag it home and play doctor with it, hoping to mend bad breaks and form bonds in the process. That is what women do.

I guess I just got there faster than some and without the associated sex.

For Edward, I'm sure, ultimately it's easier just to dump and run. Plenty of fish in the proverbial sea. When you look like that, when you have money and a nice car. Status. Women are drawn to the symbols of it. Just as men are drawn to curvaceous young women showing their health and fecundity in the curve of hip and breast.

I remember him taking the bite of the apple, chucking it into an alley way, grinning at me, the apple making his cheek bulge. Telling me he fucks things up.

Another understatement of the year. Understatements of the year awards, 2011, go to Rosalie Hale and her half- brother.

Cocky man. Hiding behind all of it. Sure… I'm sure Edward Cullen, to some degree, has some sort of superiority complex going on. But what it seems like, really, is a defense mechanism. A clever disguise. Hello, I'm Edward Cullen. The way I park my car tells you not to touch me or what is mine. The way I drive tells you I'm too fast for you. I will be gone before you even get a chance to know me. My hair shows you my wildness, my teeth are my intent, my eyes trick you into thinking I'm a cold bastard. And my scent draws you in. You can't help yourself, like a hummingbird to nectar. My gentle hands deceive you. My confident walk is a show. My suit puts more than fabric between me and you. I am a prickly cactus in bloom; I am a napping predator; I am a pot simmering on the stove. Come close to me, but do not touch.

Do not taunt happy-fun-ball.

I smile, despite myself.

Do not play with happy-fun ball.

He likes to play though, I think. If you catch him off guard, he likes to smile. If you surprise him, he may even sing. If you clutch his arm while you awkwardly try to Charleston, he may just do it with you.

God, that night. That night feels elusive and magical now. I wish I could twist back time and tell him at that dinner table. Or go even further… right back to the moment he accused me of hitting Mrs. Kaimana in the parking lot. He would lean against the door jamb and make his assuming little statement and I would innocently say, "I would never do that, I only have one breast."

He would look at me like I was crazy and I would put on some sort of holier than thou attitude, knowing from my lofty time-travelers position that this was for the best. He would never file a claim against me. He would never offer me rides or crash his sister's Halloween party. He would never tug my ponytail or even touch me. I would be safe. I would have saved myself all this anguish.

I wouldn't be tearing up at my desk right now.

I wanted to sleep in his shirt Sunday night. Because it smelled like him. Because I was drinking and could feel his touch in the soft cotton. But I didn't. I folded it neatly and put it out of my mind.

Now, I just need to do the same with him.

I left the shirt on his desk Monday. In a paper bag so no one could tell what I was dropping off. Alice was the only one there, quietly typing away when I went in.

She cooed my name and pulled me into a big smiley hug like I just won an academy award or something. She held onto my splint and asked, her eyes like huge dark crystals, what I did to my hand.

I told her what I tell everyone. I fell.

Yeah. The look on her face told me she didn't buy it, but she changed the subject, telling me instead about New Year's Eve.

"Its posh, totally sophisticated. When Carlisle says Monte Carlo and Bond, it means he wants to play poker, chew on cigars magnificently a la Clark Gable, and drink, drink, drink. Women should be dressed to the nines. No flat shoes allowed. Do you need someone to shop with?"

I chewed my lip, preparing myself for my apology to her. I was going to try and corner Edward at this party and play an uncomfortable game of show and tell, but I'm done. I've put my proverbial ladder in the proverbial garage, set a proverbial combination lock on the door. And Edward isn't getting the proverbial code.

He wants to back away from me and I am going to let him. I have to work on ME for awhile. Edward Cullen shook loose some things that need fixing.

I pulled his dog tags from my pocket and placed them in her hand. Her eyes were large at first, then they narrowed.

I apologized to her for requesting the invite, told her that I've decided against coming. I gave her the best smile I have right now as her face fell, her mouth parting as new determination lit her eyes.

"Bella you must! I want you to come!" And she tried to press the cool metal back into my hand.

No. I shook my head and put my hands in my pockets. If these are symbolic of anything, Edwards past, his soul, his future, his demons, then they don't belong to me. They never should have been given to me. I never should have accepted them. They belong with her. I am not anyone's savior. And I'm in no condition to play these games.

"I don't think so, Alice. If you want, let me ask a different favor. Okay?"

"Anything Bella. What can I do?"

"I don't know. Just... not this."

"Okay. You're welcome to come if you change your mind."

I nodded and told her I needed to leave something for Edward and she unlocked his office for me. Then I let myself out, already feeling better. I know it isn't them, the Cullen's, but to some extent I can't help but associate them with this new battle I feel like I have to fight every day.

The battle to find happiness, to get back on track.

Then I went home and watched _Scrooged_. It didn't make me laugh. Not once. In fact, quite a bit of it kneaded some sort of pain muscle in my chest and stomach. I stoically watched it to its completion, turned off the TV and just stared at it.

Like I'm staring at my computer now.

Merry Christmas – your TV is full of sappy shit.

Merry Christmas – the world went from being fairly awesome to being overrun by happy couples and their Christmas happy crap.

Merry Christmas – welcome to your midlife crisis.

I've heard, my whole life, how the suicide rate goes up during the holidays. I never ever understood it. Christmas has always, ALWAYS been magical for me. But not this year. This year just fucking sucks.

I am getting nothing done, so I'm going to leave a little early. Maybe I'll go to Everyday Music and kill some time. Or I could go to the ice-skating rink downtown. I picture myself skating in big circles by myself, trying to skate backwards and falling, and decide my internal bruises are enough for now. Music it is.

I check my personal email before shutting down and find a response from Dr. Tanner.

_Good Afternoon Bella,_

_I think this is a good idea. There is a support group in Greenwood that meets every other Wednesday night at Greenwood Christian Church on Fremont Street. This is a broad group that includes cancer survivors and their families. I believe they meet tonight if you decide to go this route. If you are looking for a therapist, there is a practice here in our building that you can check out. I've heard good things about them. _

_I've penciled you in for January 6__th__ at 8am for a follow up on your hand. Your records show that you are also due for a mammogram and pelvic. Confirm with Carolyn at reception. _

_Merry Christmas,_

_Bree Tanner, MD_

I immediately call over to Maple Leaf Medical Practice and confirm the appointment with Carolyn. My heart skips a little. Has it really been a year since my last check-up? Time seems to be flying faster and faster as I get older. Soon I will be thirty, then forty will be here. Somewhere in that span of time, the odds that I lose my other breast are high. The older I get, the higher the odds. My heart starts skipping and I close my eyes. Starting my Zen-cycle. I am alive and healthy. The cancer is not coming back. I am not my mother. My genes are different. My genetic destiny is different. My dad is healthy as a horse. I have half his genetics. My grandparents on his side are still alive. When I'm thirty I can get tested for the BRCA-1 and BRCA-2. Then I will know. I have plenty of money. I've been saving for years. Plenty of money. Socked away. Safe. I am okay right now. I'm safe.

I think about Harry Potter and the moment he had to walk down to meet Voldemort in the _Deathly Hallows_. He knew he might not walk away. But he went. There is no way what I'm dealing with in my life is even remotely as scary as facing Voldemort. Or that moment when Anne got her head chopped off in _The Other Boleyn Girl_. That looked terrifying. The moment my mom went was peaceful. You could see the pain leave her body as she went. That wasn't scary at all. It was okay. She was free.

Her explosive smile is bright in my memory. "Heck Bella, we paid the gas bill last month. This month, let's go see Pink Martini at the SF Symphony."

I need to live my life more like that. Whether or not my days are numbered. All our days are numbered.

Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I'm okay. This thing with Leah will pass. Christmas is almost here. Eggnog. Pie. That look on my dad's face when he knows I've won Acquire, even before we start counting our money. I'm safe.

I shut down my computer and kill the lights, locking the door and stepping into the hallway. Christmas wreaths and signs proclaiming vacation bedeck every door. I step out of the warm building into the cold winter air, pulling a scarf around my neck and chin. The parking lot is nearly empty.

Nearly.

The silver Jag.

It's double parked me in. My heart flutters; it's something I can't control. For some reason, there isn't enough Zen to battle the carnival of emotions that blared to life inside of me when my eyes landed on that car.

I spin around, looking up to the Allstate window for its driver.

There he is.

I haven't seen him in days, not since he shut himself into my bathroom, and I can't see him clearly now, not with the overcast skies reflecting against the dark glass. But I can see his hand. He's making the come hither gesture, pointing at me and crooking his finger.

I bite the inside of my lip, trying not to smile. Elated and irritated both.

I head back inside, down the long hallway, past Olympian Real Estate to his suite. I turn the handle and push in the door. The suite feels empty, hollow.

"Edward?"

No answer.

I walk back to his office and peer around the corner. The light is bouncing off his gleaming desk, off cool metal and black filing cabinets. "Edward?"

Alice and Emmett's offices are dark and closed. I make my way to his window, standing where _he_ did not three minutes ago, looking out over the parking lot. I see him down on the walkway, right where I stood as he beckoned to me. His hair fluttering in the wind, luxuriantly blowing over his flattened hand with which he shields his eyes as he looks up at me. I cock my head to the side in question.

That smile. Holy shit.

I have never seen him smile like that. Playful and boyish. Totally uninhibited. Totally free. Totally lending power to all the electricity my body contains. I surge with it, in response to it. That smile.

And then it's gone.

His back is to me as he moves quickly back towards the building entrance. I dart around his desk, infected, light, ready to catch him in the hallway.

I don't find him there, though. The hallway is deserted. It never feels this way except for this time of year. You can just tell that all the suites are empty as people spend these days with family.

I call out to him, "Edward?"

Nothing.

I slow my pace as I approach the front door to the building and look out the glass door to the parking lot. My car sits still and alone now.

The Jag is gone.

I let myself out and walk to my car, looking around me as I go. Looking for the glint of penny hair or a streak of silver automobile. Nothing. Just this cold blustery day muting the color of everything, bleeding out the gleam, dulling everything with its heavy gray.

There is something tucked between my driver side window and the door. Cardstock. Creamy and stiff.

_Somehow Bella, I know it won't be Christmas for you without carols. ~EC_

I pluck it from its spot and turn it over in my hands as I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise. I look around again.

Nothing.

And then I see it. On my seat. A thin manual with a picture of stereo components on the cover. In my dash, a new radio. Equipped with an AUX input, CD changer and satellite feed. I gape at it a moment before pulling out my phone. I pull up his number and call him. It just rings. I don't bother leaving a message. I end the call and text him.

**How did you get in my car? ~B**

His response comes fast.

**Please, Bella. ~E**

**Where are you? ~B**

**Somewhere where I can see you. Your smile is beautiful. ~E**

I didn't realize how big I am smiling. Huge. Easy. I feel my cheeks burn as I try to look around surreptitiously. Then I give up and crane my neck all the way around. My phone vibrates again and I look down at it.

**And now your blush is too. ~E**

I look up at the Allstate window, but I don't see him there either.

**Thank you. ~B**

**Merry Christmas Bella. ~E**

**Come out? ~B**

I wait for the phone to surge again with his response. But it stays quiet.

I try calling again. He doesn't answer.

Sneaky, sneaky man.

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>

**.**

**.**

**A/N:**

**I was going to write a bunch of stuff here... but I totally don't remember what I was going to say! Oh yeah:**

**Dragonfly336 is a samurai. SamuraiDragonfly. She has swords, she uses them. On words. It's this whole thing. **

**BelieveItOrNot. Fucking. Rules. **

**And I wouldn't be posting this chapter today if not for dreaminginnorweigen and moirae who convinced me to split a very large chapter into two shorter ones. **

**Also, if you aren't utterly sick of me yet, LuvrofInk interviewed me for twigirlsnextdoor. com. She put a velociraptor in the interview so it's pretty much the best thing ever. **

**And this - At some point in the future, Bella _will _discuss why she opted not to have reconstruction. Thank you for reading! You guys are zee best! **


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author.******

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

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><p><strong>AN: Thank you to everyone. **

**Especially Dragonfly336. The girl is fucking committed. And I mean that in more ways than one. **

**BelieveItOrNot - for always settling my anxiety - Thank you.**

**Music and stuff is on my blog. IReenH. Blogspot. Com**

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

In my life, I'll need you here.  
>Don't ask why and I'll never disappear...<br>Why is it everyday, that I feel the pain?

~Moon Baby by Godsmack

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><p>***EPOV***<p>

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><p>"You look like you're in better spirits today, Edward."<p>

I sort of smile at her, pulling one cheek in between my teeth. The room doesn't intimidate me like it did last time. Somehow, I've been here already and I survived. The unknown is over. This is known to me now. While I may not fucking like it, I can get through it. I can get something out of it. I can get through it.

"Do you think the twice weekly schedule will work for you? For now?"

I nod.

"Very good. I'd like to start out that way, maybe for about four weeks or so, then let's go to once per week. Sound doable to you?"

I nod.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you some questions to start us off, unless you have something specific that you would like to begin with?"

I shake my head.

I feel my heart skitter quietly faster, just slightly, settling into the rhythm of my anxiety. I can get through it.

Rachel pulls her notepad out of the drawer and flips a few pages, settling her small gold rimmed glasses on her Grecian nose. "Let's try to keep it light today, okay? Maybe you can leave here ready to enjoy Christmas. Do you celebrate the holiday?"

I shrug.

I know Rachel doesn't celebrate Christmas either. Riley used to tell me as much.

She regards me, and I can tell, in this heavy, quiet moment, she knows that I know her. She knows that I know Riley, and she knows how I know him. She knows why I called her and not one of the million other head-fuckers in this city. She knows she doesn't have to earn my trust. She already has it.

Because she raised a man like Riley. A man… not all that different from me. Just better.

"Your father is Carlisle Cullen, is he not?"

"He is."

"Tell me something you respect about him."

Easy. "His work ethic."

"And your mother is?"

"Liz."

"Something you respect about her?"

Rachel regards me as I try to think of anything I respect about my mother. I don't know her all that well. All I really know about her, is- "She raised a fine woman, my sister."

She checks her notes from last session. "Alice?"

"Rosalie."

"So, she raised your sister, Rosalie, but not you?"

"I was raised by my father and his parade of broodmares."

"It sounds like you don't feel close to either of them."

"Frankly, no." I'm closer to Mayor McGinn than I've ever been to any of the people charged with my upbringing.

"Does this lack of familial bond anger you, Edward?"

I search for the honest answer. My gaze is full of the shelves right above Rachel's head as I mull over what she's asked me.

I nod. "I think so. Or, it used to. And now… I don't really care."

She gives me her gentle look of understanding and my eyebrows jump automatically. Is this fucking going somewhere?

She shifts slightly in her chair as she leans forward. "I want to ask you to share two things with me. I want one of your best memories from childhood and one of your worst. You can give them to me in either order you're comfortable with."

Sometimes, I feel like my whole childhood is a blur of bad memories. But there's one that stands out.

"I got locked in a closet when I was six years old. It was an accident, I thought." Emmett swore he couldn't get the bolt to turn. I told him to get our stepmom or the housekeeper. But he didn't. He was only four. I don't know what happened, he just wandered off and forgot. "I was in there for-fucking-ever."

"How long is for-fucking-ever? Do you know?"

"Overnight."

She nods slightly. "That made a huge impact on you, didn't it? That your family could eat dinner, tuck in their children, and go to bed not realizing you were gone?"

"Consuela found me the next day and let me out. Fiona told me she thought I was up to my moody hide and seek garbage again and that I would come out when I was good and ready. I always thought that was fucking horse-shit." Now that I actually think about it though, I do have a habit of taking off whenever I feel like it. I've always been that way.

"A night in a closet is a long time when you're six."

"It was." And the light switch was outside the door. So it was dark. I pounded and knocked and yelled. But it was the closet near the garages which occupied the first floor, far from the main part of the house.

"How did you feel, being stuck in there?"

I take a deep breath and remember it. "Anger." At Emmett. At everyone for not feeling my fear and coming to find me. "Scared…" of the dark. Scared that I would be stuck in there forever. "Like a sissy…" for feeling scared.

I chuckle to myself, fighting the compressed feeling in my chest and neck.

"No judgment here, Edward. Remember?"

This is therapy, I need to talk for her to be able to help me. "I remember thinking that He-Man wouldn't be scared. Dumb fucking kid." Actually, it was She-Ra who I thought wouldn't be scared, and still to this day that makes me feel like a fucking girl.

And now I'm lying to my shrink.

I have two fucking balls and a cock that works overtime. I can fucking admit that I used to fucking watch She-Ra. FUCK. Rachel has just opened her mouth when I interrupt and tell her as much. Her eyebrow goes up. I think I just gave her the fucking keys to my Freudian fucking mess.

"I liked Evil-Lyn," is all she says about that before going on. "How long has it been since you thought about that closet?"

"I don't know. Couple months, maybe."

My leg is starting to fidget. I put my palm flat against it and take a breath.

"Tell me your good memory now."

"Third grade field trip. We went… somewhere I don't remember. A state park. We were put on the buddy system and I was paired up with Eric Yorkie." Eric was a geek who lived behind coke-bottle glasses and a retainer that he would leave in while he ate snack. Food would get stuck in there and he was just fucking gross. He always smelled like piss and wet crackers. Never forget the way that kid smelled. "We got paired because we were the last dweebs without a partner."

"Go on."

I remember that day like it was yesterday. Sister Claire asking us to buddy up and hold hands. Don't get separated. Heidi took one step toward me before being gripped and yanked back by Roxanne. An outrageous redhead who always reminded me of Margaret from Dennis the Menace. She even wore the pink bows on her pigtails. At eight, I didn't know the word 'bitch.' But I know it now, and that's what Roxanne was. She started the unending phenomenon of calling me Ed-turd and she always, ALWAYS tried to hit me in dodgeball. She usually succeeded too, knocking me down and then everyone would laugh.

"Eric and I got separated from the class." Mostly because his hand was moist in mine and I wanted to get out of Claire's sight so I could let go of it. I remember thinking we weren't fucking kindergartners. But it was Catholic school. You were always treated like kindergartners, even in eighth grade. Then - when you got to the upper level, you were treated like sixth graders. At least there was evolution, of a fucking sort.

"So somehow, we veered left instead of right and ended up near a dried up riverbed. I don't remember whose idea it was, Eric's or mine, but we ended up in the crevice. Rachel, it was incredible. Erosion had carved castles into the sides of the stream. And… it was tall, taller than us. Eric - he started telling a story about kings who conquered the magic cliffs with horses that could see in the dark. And then we were building. Twigs and flowers and leaves and pebbles, all constructing winding pathways up the sides of the walls. Eric Yorkie… he went on to form the literature club in high school. His imagination was just… well, anyway… he and I both forgot all about Sister Claire. And the group. Until a police officer was pulling us out of the ravine by our collars and giving us all kinds of shit. Irresponsible boys worrying our parents sick. I looked at him like he was insane. Obviously, my parents never worried about me. But then, out from behind Sister Claire's fat fucking ass comes Fiona. Duplicitous fucking bitch, gathering me up in her arms and thanking the police officer for tracking us down; that the whole family had been worried sick for hours. And I believed her. I stupidly… fucking believed her. But, that isn't the point."

"The point… was the escapism. With Eric Yorkie."

I nod.

"Did you guys stay friends after that?"

"Sort of. Not by choice, really. Just because he and I were always the last to be picked for anything." Ed-turd and Dorkie-Yorkie.

"Kids are cruel."

I shrug. "It's long ago, now."

"It is. And it will only get longer and longer."

I know what she means by this. She means, why the fuck does all this shit still bother me? It's fucking pointless for it to keep bothering me. Fucking pointless. A lot of the time it doesn't. I don't even think about this shit, most of the time. It's past. It's OVER. But what I've come to understand is that a lot of it shaped who I am now. I molded the shit I endured into the shit that I am.

Someone needs to flush all the shit away. I'm fucking done with it. I'm done with Dorkie-Yorkie and Roxanne fucking Redheaded Mitchell. And Fiona. And my father. And Liz.

Same fucking mantra. Same day, every day.

I hate that they still affect me. That their toxic crap still lives inside of me. I hate myself because I was sculpted by their hands. By their words and their rejections.

Alice, helped me to remain fine with being me for a long time, until the shit pile got so high that you had no choice but to wade through it every fucking day. And it gets all fucking over you. Fucking shit.

I fill my lungs as Rachel watches. I realize she's asked me a question and I missed it. "I'm sorry, Rachel, what?"

"Did things get better for you after elementary school?"

"The school I went to was all grades. K-12. So, there was no getting away from any of it."

"I don't mean to be personal, Edward, but you seem intelligent, and you're a fine looking man. A lot of times, good exterior attributes help to tip the scales, particularly in school. But not for you?"

Not for me. "Late bloomer."

"I see. And after school, what did you do?"

"I got accepted to Julliard. I moved to New York."

She has that look again. "You graduated high school… in what, '97?"

I nod slightly and my throat burns. "I thought we were keeping it light?"

"Would you like to change the subject?"

"I would."

"Tell me about this girl… the one who makes you feel safe."

My heart lurches again and I exhale, trying to blow away the pinching inside my ribs. I can feel her, her body curled into mine, all her pieces fitting snugly against me. All my pieces built to guard her.

The distinction in my nature, the nature of man and the nature of man as pertains to woman.

It's how I feel, how I see myself. Built to protect, built to provide, built for physical strength, for mental cunning, even for inhuman cruelty. All for woman.

How it feels, to be completed. I am half a whole, and the compliment to my masculinity is femininity. Woman.

Delicate, dark haired woman. Exposed and vulnerable. Lips like ripe nectarines and hands that heal. All of her is a heart, thumping a rhythm familiar to me.

New to me. Old to me. Ingrained in me, estranged from me. Existing in my blood, twisting the capillaries and shifting the motion of everything I do. Everything I do. Everything I've done.

Driven to be… just to be fucking close to her, not just because of her and her smile, but because I can't protect her from afar. It's a fight, in me. I feel compelled, somehow. Compelled close, while still stretching back out of reach.

"Her name is Bella. I see her in everything. I feel like… when I look back into my past, she has always been there. A face in the classroom, in a bar, in the desert, in the city. She's always been there, just watching, learning me, knowing me, waiting for the right time. Waiting for me… to be ready." I look up from my hands into Rachel's hazel eyes. "Is that… is that weird?"

"I don't think so."

"I mean, I understand that I place her there in retrospect. I see her in hindsight, something… I don't know."

"Something you could accomplish?"

"More. Something… I am."

"Something good?"

"Maybe."

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

I've been ignoring my phone for days and when I switch it on after leaving Dr. Bier's office, I find that I have no less than eleven messages. All of them are from Alice. I select the most recent one and hold the phone a few inches from my ear as her exasperated voice chides me.

"Edward I'm really getting worried now. You never ignore me _this_ long!"

I listen to the second to oldest one.

"Answer your fucking phone!"

And the one before that.

"EDWARD – what the fuck? I know you don't want me to show up at your condo like before, but I will, and you know what, you will never regret it more than this time!"

I bite the bullet and just call her. She answers the phone, coyly asking who I am and how I got her number.

"Ha ha. Where's the fire?"

"How many of my messages did you listen to?"

"Only the last three."

She squeaks in frustration. "Where've you been the last few days? I didn't know you were taking this week off!"

"I didn't plan to."

"You need to get your ass back in. With Emmett gone too, I'm overloaded. People driving their cars into each other doesn't stop just because it's Christmas."

"Mmmm. Is this why you called eleven times? To nag me?"

"Isn't that why I always call?"

"Point to you."

"Anyway, no. I called because… and this is weird… but stick with me here… I think you should invite Bella to New Year's Eve."

"What makes you think I haven't already?"

"I know you haven't. Were you planning to?"

"I don't think so. I don't think I want to come. I'm sick of watching all you people get wasted."

"Ha. You should come. And you should invite Bella."

I groan. "Won't she be there anyway? Jane's catering it?"

"Jane is. Bella isn't. Between you and me, Edward – she wanted you to invite her. She wanted to come as a guest and not a peon. Her words."

"When did you guys talk about this – she hasn't mentioned it to me."

"How can she mention it to you when you aren't here and you don't answer your phone?"

"Maybe your calls are the only ones I don't answer."

"You forget, brother, I've known you your whole life. Or, my whole life. Whatever. That isn't the point. The point is, come to the party. Bring Bella as your plus one."

In my mind I can see Bella, how she dressed for our date. How stunning she is, how easily she wore the clothes of a queen. How comfortable she seems in her own beautiful skin. I try to see us clinking champagne glasses together, kissing her to bring in the New Year. Looking forward to the coming year with new hope, with a woman who makes me feel like hope isn't a pointless thing.

I think I want her to know how I feel. Why should I hide it, or run from it? Why shouldn't I stand my ground, as Bella would. Take what's mine, as Bella is.

I know that now.

"I'll think about it," I say and end the call.

**...**

**(((HiFI)))**

**...**

The ride up to my condo is slightly sickening. The air of the elevator ripe with the god awful perfume of Mrs. Blakely, one floor below. Or maybe it's her dog. Yappy piece of shit.

I think she can sense my annoyance; she huddles quietly in the corner, not meeting my eye. And Mrs. Blakely doesn't talk to me either. When the doors open and she scurries out in a beeline of fur and feathers, I finally take a breath. The small mirrored space still smells like fucking Windsong. Or dog shampoo. Probably the same ingredients.

The hallway of my floor is blessedly empty, my condo cold. A burden I don't really want to fuck with. I've never been as sick of this place as I am now.

I set the radio, wires twisting out the backside, on the stone counter next to a pile of mail and pull open the junk drawer looking for a screwdriver. My hand connects with ridged plastic as I grab a red handled Phillips and set to work disassembling the case. After I've taken out about fifty tiny screws I open the cabinet and let my fingers find the cool shape of a bottle ofJohnnie Walker Black. The touch alone is like relief, and I pull it out and pour a glass.

I just need to turn off my brain for a while. I open the case and look at the mess of components underneath. I don't know what any of this shit does, I just know that there is a CD in this drive and I need to get it out.

I want to see what it is.

I have my suspicions.

I could just call her. I could just…

I miss her. I miss the way she smells and her smile. I miss her delighted brown eyes and her touch like honey balm. I miss the full-body comfort of just fucking being near her. I miss how she knows what's in my head.

Does she know?

Sometimes, I think she does.

I pull open the silverware drawer and get a butter knife, proceeding to wedge it into the gap in the CD player and cracking it like a shuck in an oyster. It pops open with a splintery crack in the plastic.

I drain my glass.

Of course.

Of course it's fucking _Revelator_. I knew it would be.

I take the disc out and set it on the counter, mirror side up. Then I flip through the mail. Bills, junk, Christmas cards, one addressed in Fiona's perfect hand. To Eddie Cullen.

I stare long at it and decide, what the fuck? I'm in therapy. This year, I'm going to read the fucking thing. I use the butter knife to slit the envelope and pull out a card showing the Virgin Mary with a newborn baby Jesus under a bright northern star. Their halos are gold leaf, the card is trimmed with it.

I open the card and find more of her trained script evenly decorating the inside.

_Eddie – I hope this card finds you well and that you've found the happiness and peace that God has in his heart for all of us. You and Emmett, while not biologically mine, are still my children, as much as Alice is, and I only wish for all three of you, the very best things, now, and all the year. Merry Christmas ~Fiona Brandon_

Such a trite, tidy little message. I haven't spoken to Fiona in a long time. And I've never ever contemplated what her feelings towards me are. I always just instinctively knew. Carlisle's determined young bride, taking on two kids not her own, providing him a girl, never getting pregnant again. The way her perfectly manicured finger would point at me, bangles clattering around her wrist, as she would say, "There you are, young man!" Or, "For heavens sake, Eddie, stop making that racket."

"Would it kill you to smile? Just once?"

But I did smile. Maybe not around her. Maybe never around her.

Carlisle did though. Order of importance was established the minute he walked in the door.

Fiona was the only thing he saw, and the two of them would disappear. I understand that now, I think. A long day away from the warmth of your mate, dreaming of her while you do bullshit things at your stone cold desk in your perfectly heated or cooled office. Escaping to passion and comfort, that's what going home is. Immediately finding your center, immediately reestablishing yourself inside your wife. Reemerging a bit more relaxed, ready to take your place at the head of the family.

Then Emmett's hair would get ruffled. Then Alice's creation of the day would get admired. And then me. "Hey kid, Fiona tells me you…" whatever trouble I gave her that day.

Reestablishing dominance. I am your father and you will obey your mother.

She's not my mother.

My mother was dead… a lie.

A vicious, dangerous lie that allowed me to recreate her into a mother that was perfect in every way. She wouldn't scold or yell or ignore. She wouldn't favor Emmett over me. Because I came first. She would see that I was responsible and smart. I would be her blood, she would tell me that. She would have a secret smile for me. Just for me.

I imagined her in Heaven watching over me. I pettily imagined her outrage at how her eldest son was an outcast every where he went.

But the angel in Heaven belonged only to Emmett… and watch over him she must have. Golden boy.

Liz, my mother, very much here on Earth. She knew exactly who I was when she looked at me shrewdly and told me to stay away from her daughter. Golden child, fair and nurtured. Haughty and demanding. The only-child princess, the prince having been dislodged and set adrift on a Nile of Cullen-shit**. **

I pour another glass of scotch. Trying to interrupt the returning feelings of rage and disgust when I think about lusting after my sister. When I think about the moment Liz strolled into my office and told me her daughter was off limits and how I thought Rosalie's mom was holding up fine indeed. That made me consider Rosalie in a different light. Like I could see something long-term with her. Beautiful, intelligent, a little high maintenance… sure. Blinders… blinders that helped me to ignore that when I kissed her… it felt… off.

I kill the glass and pour another.

My appointment with Rachel Biers wasn't light, and it certainly didn't fucking put me in the holiday mood. It made me fucking pissed. Mostly at myself. Mostly because I can't get out of my own bullshit head right now.

And this bullshit mess.

And me, me, me.

Because, no matter how I slice all this fucking bullshit, it really breaks down to one simple fact.

I'm an asshole.

And I don't get to blame my parents or my siblings or my schoolmates or the nuns or the terrorists or really fucking anybody. The government, or god, or their piddly little representatives in my life.

I created this existence. I choose to keep living it. I hate that. I hate my fucking inability to change. I'm so desperately sick of this fucking EVERYTHING. I'm too much of a coward to really wrestle this gorilla to the ground and metaphorically kill it in order to get my life back. And what would I do then, if I could?

If I could say fuck all this to Emmett and Carlisle and take myself fucking far away from all of this.

This whole city is full of my failure. Every fucking corner of it has seen me drunk or dysfunctional. I have a visible trail here, between bars and apartments and the backseats of cabs where some tanked beauty has no problem putting her mouth on what could be the filthiest thing in this town. My cock.

Because of my face. My car, my rage and this hair. This hair like a beacon of fornication.

I would shave it off, but I can't. I cannot bear my reflection when I can see my own scalp. It doesn't matter what I'm wearing, I see the chevrons of being the tool for someone else's power-mongering on my body.

I could ditch the car. But come on. It's a fucking Jag.

And this face.

Why Bella wants me is a complete fucking mystery to me.

But she does.

She, more than anyone, has reason to turn from me and never look back.

But she isn't.

And I cannot hand her some cheap token of a fuck and be okay with it. I can't make her the next contestant in a game show of How-we-fucking-distract-ourselves-from-reality. I can't turnstile her in and out of my condo like all the rest.

Fuck, I miss her. When did a handful of days become an eternity?

And I realize, before I even left for Costa Rica.

Finding excuses to just be near her.

Convincing myself that the sand between my toes was enough of a distraction.

I take a deep breath and blow my hair up out of my eyes.

Is it wrong to want to change, for a girl?

Somehow, I don't think so.

This is why love songs are written, why skyscrapers are built, why nothing I've ever done mattered to me before now.

I didn't give a shit how impressive anyone thought my life was, I still don't, unless her name is Bella Swan. I don't really give a shit about anyone, anything they have to say to me, even how fucking wet some pussy is because I picked up the chick's tab. I'm just here to take, and this is part of the process of making it easier to get what I want.

Until now. Now, god-fucking-damn it. I want to give. To her.

I WANT to love her. Even as I fear it.

I want to hold her. Even as I keep my distance.

I want her to love me and that thought scares the fucking shit out of me.

This feeling I have like I need to protect her, like her fragility has made me a man, while her determination unmans me.

I can't go backwards. I can only go forwards.

She is special. She is fucking… special. Jasper tried to tell me. It just took me a while to see it. I missed it, because I was looking for what made her different, not realizing that it's not something you see. It's something you feel. Like getting shot. You don't see the bullet zipping towards you. You hear the crack of weapon, and the next thing you know you're on your knees.

* * *

><p>***BPOV***<p>

* * *

><p><em>Why?<em>

_"Why - what, Bella?"_

_Why are you always in my dreams?_

_He smiles. He is complete when he smiles like this. I am complete when he smiles like this. _

_He reaches for my hand. The splint is gone. His dominant hand clutches mine. There is no pain. _

"_Because – in dreams, I can finally be myself."_

_But these are MY dreams._

_"They are OUR dreams."_

_But they aren't. None of this is real. I see that clearly. Dreams are a lie. _

_This is my subconscious fucking with me._

_One of his eyebrows springs up._

_It doesn't matter if you know. Words… between us, have never been… totally… necessary._

_He nods._

_I don't like how honest this feels. When I wake up, it will only hurt._

_His voice rumbles, so distinctly Edward, so distinctly close to me, within me, like he is really here. "Your dreams hurt you while you're awake? Funny, mine hurt me while I sleep." He squeezes my hand and again I talk to him without sound._

_I know. You cry._

_His face is forlorn, it gives sadness to his beautiful smile. I reach up to touch it._

_I just want to touch him. _

_"And I, you."_

_My fingers are just about to trace his lips, catch his kind words, because in this moment I believe I can carry them into my waking life, when the sand shifts under my feet. It ripples, tremors making it crack and splinter into giant halos around us._

My phone is ringing. Insistent vibrations coming from my nightstand, chattering in my skull. I reach for it, blindly knocking it onto the floor.

What the hell time is it?

My sleep muddled eyes struggle to bring sense to the glowing red digits. Two something. I snatch my phone off the floor. The connection is open. I must have accepted the call as I groped for it in the dark.

"Hello?"

"Bella…"

"Edward. Are you okay?" My heart is skittering now and my vision, though full of black, is sharp and ready. I sit up, mentally cataloguing where my jeans and keys are in the dark.

He breathes.

"Edward?"

"Yeah. Just… just talk to me, Bella. Just talk. Anything. Tell me anything."

"Did you have a nightmare?"

Silence.

"I was dreaming of you. When you called," I say quietly.

I can hear him inhaling and exhaling, filling his lungs to capacity and then letting the air seep back out.

"You were smiling."

"I was dreaming about you." His voice shakes. "You weren't smiling. It was so real. It was… talk to me Bella."

My mind is totally blank. Empty. All I see in this darkness is the residue of my dream. Edward Cullen, windblown and happy. Where were we? I lean back into my pillow and close my eyes, bringing back the images around us, the sand shore splintering around us, cutting us off from the rest of the beach.

"We were at the beach. Not a warm one, a cold foggy beach. Like Fort Bragg or Monterey. Somewhere where the sand is coarse and abrasive. Somewhere where we would wrap our hands around hot cups of coffee or cocoa. Somewhere we would listen to… I don't know… Irish folk punk like Flogging Molly… and drink dark suede colored beer."

"Now you're talking."

"We could go somewhere with a big bar, mahogany maybe, with semi-circle dents in it from ladies heels. Somewhere where our shoes stick to the floor with each step. Somewhere with darts and pool and men in funny hats."

"Are we in Ireland?"

"Maybe. I don't know. It's somewhere I've never been. Cloudy gun-metal skies, and the ocean is gray too."

"Cloudy skies. And rain. Tell me about rain, Bella."

My mind is full of rain, driving down from Reno into the Sierra Nevada's, watching the storm clouds ahead of me ooze towards the earth. "Like when it rains in the distance? When it looks like a cloud melting towards the horizon?"

"No. Like… when it rains… on you. Like that day you walked home in the rain."

"I walked for miles. That morning it was just a heavy mist. It made the air visible, and everything in it… invisible. Shrouded. Blanketed in fog. You know what my favorite thing about rain is?"

"Getting out of it?"

"The smell. Well, actually, that's wrong. It's not the rain, it's the dirt. It's rain falling on dirt."

"You mean mud."

"No… not mud. I mean, like rain falling on parched dirt. Cracking, dry dirt, hitting it with force and the dust floats up into the air. That smell. Like summertime rain."

"Like at the wedding. I remember the smell when I got up that morning."

I never thought Edward Cullen would take notice of the smell of wet earth. He fills the silence with his hushed voice. It fills more than the silence. It fills the darkness. "I think that was the first big storm of the season."

"Figures."

"You were soaked, Bella. I remember, I could see through the sleeves of your undershirt."

"I remember." Distinctly.

He sighs, and his voice is small when he next speaks. "I'm sorry. I was a complete dick to you that night."

I don't really know what to say. He _was_ a complete dick.

"You were right not to dance with me. I couldn't believe it when you refused me. But you were right to."

"I didn't understand why you asked me. Still don't."

"Even then. Even then, I wanted to… just… touch you."

I can hear my pulse inside my ears. My dream comes back to me, the look on dream-Edward's face when he said, _And I, you. _

"Edward?"

"Yes, Bella?"

"I am so… lost. Help me out, here?" I mimic his words from the car ride to V-M last weekend.

The line is quiet. The miles between us, I can feel all of them in the silence.

"You know what I love about Clair De Lune?"

I shake my head, even though he can't see me.

"It starts, gentle and melancholy, gets playful in the middle, but there is always an undercurrent of the macabre. When I hear it, I see a pas de deux. It's insistent, then hopeful, then reluctant, and triumphant, then tragic. He reaches for her and she to him, in arabesque _penchée_, he lifts her easily, then bringing her down and flinging her away, chasing, hiding. Her tip-toeing around him, just outside his reach."

I don't even know how to process what I am hearing. I don't know how to talk Ballet, not to anyone. Certainly not Edward Cullen.

He laughs a quiet laugh, stretched thin from slumber, and maybe something more. "I'm not gay."

"What?"

"Just, I guess, that whole thing sounded… Like I knew a lot about ballet. I do. But I'm very heterosexual."

I snort-exhale out my nose. I am fully aware of how heterosexual Edward is.

He knows what I'm thinking because he says, "I guess you know that though. Don't you. I have more than the wedding to apologize for. When I say that I'm sorry, Bella… do you believe that I mean it?"

His tone is so incredibly sincere that I can't help believing it. I feel like I'm talking to a different man, not the man who hid in my bathroom or snapped in my face. In this moment I am closer to Edward Cullen than I have ever been.

"I do."

The line is quiet.

"Why didn't you come out today?"

"I had somewhere I needed to be. And… I'm sort of unaccustomed to gift-giving."

"You do it well. You picked a nice stereo, new speakers too, yeah?"

"Yes. Infinity."

"It's nice to be able to just plug in my iPod and not have to fiddle with the tape deck gizmo. It really was, the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me, I think."

He seems uncomfortable. It's odd because the silence through the phone hasn't changed at all. I am just wondering how I know how he feels, when he speaks again.

"What song did you break it in with?"

It's questions like this that make me think that Edward and I aren't really that different. Because I did consider carefully what song I would play first. Oddly, it was the one we were just talking about.

"Actually… it was Clair De Lune."

"Why that one?"

I don't know why that one. In his honor to some extent. Because it has always been a song that I love, for reasons that I love, and after that wedding, it reminded me that Edward Cullen is not someone I should accept dances from. No matter how much I want to. But that isn't what I say.

"Clair De Lune always sounded like an underwater lullaby to me. Maybe because my mom would put it on when I was little and she put me down for a nap. I remember lying in the middle of her big bed, on my stomach, the window open for a summer breeze, and Clair De Lune playing quietly to drown out noises from the street below. This was usually after swimming and my mind was full of pool water."

"You started swimming young."

"Yes. Very. I don't remember a time when I couldn't swim."

"That's funny. I don't remember a time when I couldn't play Clair De Lune. Are you fast, in water?"

"I used to be."

"What's your favorite stroke?"

That's easy. "Freestyle."

He chuckles softly. I hear the familiar sounds of glass clinking.

"Do you swim?"

"When forced. Is blue your favorite color?"

"It used to be… Blue like, almost purple. Deep, rich blue."

"Used to be?"

"Well. I guess it still is. But now… it's blue… shot through with sunlight. Bright golden summer morning sunlight. Blue… tarnished… by gold."

"It sounds like green."

"Yeah, green."

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

"Edward?" I look at the clock on the bedside table. It's just after one a.m.

His voice is thick. "Again, Bella. Please. Tell me about… anything. Tell me anything. Tell me your dream. Were you dreaming?"

"I wasn't. I was reading."

"What?"

"Just… trash. Romance novel. Predictable garbage."

"Tell me about it?"

I flip the book closed and look at the cover. "So… he is this viscount and a rake. She is a spinster with glasses. She lives with her cousin who is a widow… and her cousin makes the mistake of taking her to some sort of debauched house party where he gets his rake-hands on her and seduces her. Then, as per formula, he falls for her for some reason. I don't know why, because of her gold flecked skin or something. But he can't admit it, because he's a man. And she, well, she is a woman, so she thinks she's ugly. Of course… when she takes her prissy little glasses off, she becomes … goddess-like. It's all bullshit. A big fat crock of it, in fact."

"Why read it then?"

"I thought it would bore me to sleep."

"Is that so?"

I smile.

"You're smiling. I can tell."

"I just needed something… mindless. You know? I got it at the grocery store. I don't know why I can't put it down. The heroine, she has 'glorious copper hair' and it's funny, each time I read about the color of her hair I see you in my mind. Sans corset, of course."

"Does that make you the viscount rake?"

"I suppose. Although he has golden hair and gray eyes. Not boring brown on brown. Usually, in books of this kind, the helpful friend has brown hair and brown eyes. She is usually described as 'mousy.'"

I can hear his lips spread in a smile. "Are you fishing for compliments? Should I tell you how un-mousy your hair and eyes are?"

"Not at all. I'm just saying… I have a hard time relating to anyone in this book, throbbing cock or not."

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, you know… of course he is always at the ready for her. Because of her glorious copper hair and guileless blue eyes. It's essentially what the whole book is about. It's a fun read though. Very sexy."

"How so? Tell me." The tone of his voice has changed and it causes my blood to burn hot in my face.

"Errrr… well. You know. She's all… virginal and he's… experienced. He gives her multiple orgasms just by looking at her, practically."

"That isn't very realistic."

"No. It's probably because this is like… Victorian or Regency, maybe, not sure… and she doesn't know how to touch herself. She's all shaken up like a bottle of champagne. Doesn't take much to pop her cork."

He laughs. "Nice visual."

"Edward… can I ask you a personal, sexual question?"

"My favorite kind."

"How important… is the female orgasm to you… in like, say… a one night stand scenario?"

"Did I agree to answer this question honestly?"

"It was implied."

"Fuck."

"That sounds like… not very important."

"Honestly… fuck. No… not very. They fake it. I let them. I don't really care."

"Wow. Always – they fake it?"

"Often enough. Sometimes not. You pretty much nailed it, that morning in my office. I didn't quite count twelve faked orgasms… but the point was well made."

"How do you know?"

"I don't know… you just do. When a woman really comes… well. You're a woman. You know the difference."

"I read once that the act of coitus is considered over with male ejaculation, why do you suppose that is?"

"Nice clinical terms. Is that how we keep this line of conversation tidily non-arousing? Because I have to say, if that was your intent, Bella…"

"No. I just really wondered. Studies show that the female orgasm opens the cervix to allow for easier conception-"

"That's probably why we don't care then. Knocking you up might be a biological imperative… programmed into our genes somehow, but that is really… when I'm fucking a girl… sorry… but that's the last thing I care about. Is opening her fucking cervix. Seriously."

I laugh. "Don't… apologize. I brought it up. I appreciate your… candor. So. Can I ask you another question?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No. So… isn't it weird… that the reason… people give for male promiscuity… to spread your genes around and all that, is actually contrary to, I don't know… reality? You don't have any… kids… that you know of – right?"

"No. I am not father-material."

"Edward… wait. How do you know?"

"Really, Bella? Why are we talking about this?"

"I'm sorry. I just… the book, and the candor… and… I'm sorry. It's not my business."

"I always wear a rubber. Is that what you are asking me? Always. How's that for candor?"

"I'm sorry. I don't need to know…"

"I don't ever, ever trust that she's on the pill. They always tell me they're on the pill. Like that means anything. Especially when I pick them up in a shitty fucking bar. You've seen where I go. I barely know their names half the time. But the one thing I never ever forget… is that I'm Carlisle Cullen's son. A bastard. And that cycle of fucked ends here."

The open sound of the line between us hums quietly.

"I'm not fit to be a parent. I'm not even fit to be an absentee parent. I guess I'm fit to sign a check, which is all I would be doing. And that isn't… that's… just wrong. For me… it's wrong."

"I understand that… about you. And I think you're right."

"Oh?"

"Yeah… you would be a shitty father."

He snorts. "Thanks."

"Being a good father… That kind of thing takes time and work. Like a female orgasm… and you can't even accomplish a task that hard. You should definitely avoid parenting."

His laugh is full in my ear.

"Definitely. Oh and by the way, Bella… let's be clear. You asked me about one-night stands. If I am going to fuck you more than once, then yes, I give a shit about your orgasm."

"Orgasm? Not… multiples?" I tease.

"Is that an option?" His voice is quiet.

"Um…How about those Mariners?"

"You don't get to change the subject this time Bella. Besides. It's December. The Mariners still suck."

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

My phone rings early the next night, just before ten. Edward sounds like he hasn't been to bed yet, and his words are slightly runny in the middle. Like alcohol has stretched his vowels lean and he has to talk carefully to get from one consonant to another. He is happy and flirty and to be honest… I have no idea what is going on here. Again.

I haven't seen him in the office, though his Jag was there Thursday and today, and he hasn't spoken a word to me in daylight. At night, though, our conversations are long and fairly open. About all kinds of things, usually degrading into gibberish as one of us falls asleep on the phone. Or both.

"What's the furthest from Seattle you've been?" he asks.

I'm leaned back in bed, my phone resting on the pillow next to me, the speaker on. His voice fills the small bedroom. More than that, and I almost feel like he is here with me.

"I went to Manhattan with my grandmother once. We went in the dead of summer. I've seldom experienced that kind of… atmospheric oppression. Hot, hot, hot with smog and sewer fumes. We rode the subway and went to the theater. I remember… distinctly… eating a Reese's Peanut Butter cup in line for _Cats_, and the chocolate melted inside the package. I had to scoop it out with my fingers. You?"

As soon as I ask, I realize I already know the answer. I bite my lip, waiting for his response, wondering what it will be.

"I can feel your tension through the phone, Bella. Alice told you, didn't she?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. I thought it likely you knew. My sister has a verbal restraint problem. Come to think of it, I have that problem too, it just manifests itself differently. So, to answer the question… yes. Afghanistan is the farthest I've been from Seattle, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I've been lots of places. In actual distances, I don't really know what's farthest. I've been to Bangkok and Cambodia and New Zealand. But Afghanistan… is definitely… the farthest, for me."

"Is that what your nightmares are of?"

"Sort of. Not Afghanistan."

"What's it like there? You don't have to tell me… I just… wonder."

"It's... It's a land of extremes. Extreme beauty. Stark. Ancient. Being there you can feel it in the landscape and the people. Not just how sacred it is, but all the attempts, throughout history to gain and hold that territory. It's a long occupied place, you can feel the whole country… is weary of it. In the colorless dirt and rocks. Your eyes begin to hunger for green, anything… anything green. You look up to the sky, hoping to get close, but even the sky… is… not enough. Then you go to the Pamir Mountains and everything, everything is green. And white with snow. I guess in that way, it's like anywhere. But it's not. It's a place where you can feel, you can see… how continents collided ages ago. The Himalayas… Even the wildlife… is extreme. There is this bird, the Monal Pheasant, so vivid in its coloring. Like the Mosques. In their extreme glory… Pakistan too… Islamabad is one of the most incredible cities I've ever been to."

His voice trails away and I'm just about to speak when he starts again.

"Extreme heat… the day dries the moisture from everything, and then the night comes and temperatures drop. It should be a place of peace. It should be a place where humans find common ground… because religion… it's all around you there. In the earth and the sky at night. The fruit, the apricots, the pomegranates. The music… all the passion in music and art. It's a paradise. Lost, I guess. A paradise lost, to me, anyway. I don't know… I always thought I would go back there. But I can't. It's not my world. I don't… understand it."

"It sounds like you do, though. It sounds beautiful… the way you describe it."

"I don't. I wish I did. I guess cultural prejudices are too great."

"Was it hard to be there as a soldier?"

"Yes." He chuckles, it's not a happy sound. "My Christmas party and enlisting. The two stupidest things I've ever done."

"Why did you?"

"Which one?"

"Either, or both."

"I don't always… think things through… and really… I'm just… an asshole. I don't know how not to be, a lot of the time. I'm acting before I've even consciously… realized that I've made a choice. That there even was a choice. Usually, it seems like I have a clear course of action that I have to take. I only realize in retrospect that I had other options. Like enlisting. Like the party. Bella, I know… you know… I was… fucked up. And all I saw… was that… I'm too fucked up for you. I told you this before… I'm not… a good guy. I wish I was. I want to be. For you. But I won't always be. I will say and do… well… I just… don't think clearly a lot of the time. But I'm trying."

Every word feels like its being forced out of his mouth. Like he is trying to say something and the taste of it on his tongue is unpalatable. The rise of it inside of him… from brain to gut to mouth to discussion... is the hardest thing he's ever done. I don't know if his intoxicated state is making it easier or harder for him. I hear all of this, and his words. And especially, _for you. _

For me?

Wanting it, for someone else… didn't I just get through this? Didn't I just work through how wrong it is to try to be better for someone else?

That doesn't take away how my heart leaped at the confession. For me?

It doesn't stop my brain from spinning, trying to find situations and scenarios where it's okay for someone else to inspire you to be better – FOR yourself. For them and you.

"Bella, for fucks sake, will you say something?"

"Edward…" I feel like I should tell him. I feel like now, he needs to know.

But I can't. Because I am a huge coward and cannot bear the taste of the words. And it's not right to tell him while he's trashed. There is no universe where that is acceptable.

"I don't think you're too fucked up for me. I think it might even be the other way around."

He lets out a shaky breathy laugh. "I doubt that."

"Don't. Don't doubt it. Okay? Look… I have things… I need to tell you, and I will. But I need a little bit of time. A little bit of time not riding some kind of emotional seesaw with you. And I understand that… to some extent… we are both see-saw people. Me on one side, you on the other, with us kicking off the ground, or each other… and just… I don't know… making a big mess out of something that should be fun. Right? So… I mean… I'm still talking to you… and you are talking to me… and maybe we just… talk to each other. And not with apologies or expectations."

"I want more than that, Bella. I'm telling you now, so you know. I want more than friendship with you."

"But you don't know me all that well, yet. I… have my own baggage…"

"I know you well enough. I SEE you. Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes." Because I see him too. And more than that… I feel him.

My phone has an open connection again the next morning. Like yesterday, and the day before.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

The air is sharp and frosty when I step out of the Isuzu, parked neatly in a guest spot, and head into the lobby of Edward Cullen's building. Gold and red garlands bedeck the sleek stone surfaces and a large white tree with matching ornaments towers in the corner across from the fireplace and waiting area. It smells like glittered pinecones and fake poinsettias. I head over to the concierge desk where an older woman in red cashmere and tasteful gold earbobs greets me with a big Merry Christmas smile. She matches the décor.

"Can you ring up to Edward Cullen's for me?" I ask, giving her the number.

"I'm sorry, dear. He's not in. Would you like to leave that for him?" She gives me an apologetic smile as her eyes find the present I carry, carefully wrapped in silver and blue.

I feel my lip come between my teeth. I guess I could leave it for him. That way he will have it when he gets home. I hand the package over to the concierge and she turns to put it in his mail slot. "Will you make sure he gets it tonight? When he gets back?"

She tells me that of course she will, and I find myself thinking she is pacifying me. If Edward comes in alone, he will likely get the present. If he comes in with a woman on his arm, the polite thing for the attendant to do would be to refrain from giving it to him.

Oh well.

I know I shouldn't, but I wonder where he is. Where he is spending Christmas Eve. Maybe he is with his family… somehow, I doubt that.

I wish he was with me.

Not just me wishing I wasn't by myself tonight. I wish Edward was with me. Edward when he is gentle and smiling. Edward when he is playful, when he reaches out to me with more than his hands. I wish for that tonight.

The conversations we have at night always seem ethereal in the daytime. Like there are things that can happen under cloak of darkness that are vanquished by the sun. Like confessions, and admissions, and… honesty.

I walk past the car and over to Pike Place. The weather tonight is downright bluster, with dark illuminated clouds looming low over Seattle.

Rudolph definitely has his work cut out for him. At least, in the Pacific Northwest he does.

I grab a cup of coffee from Starbucks and head out to the plaza where last minute shoppers are laden with packages and family, as cliché as any Hallmark special. I can hear carolers in the distance and I make towards that sound.

Somehow, I just don't want to go home yet. I just don't want to spend the evening by myself. I thought I would spend tonight with Leah and Sam and Jasper watching _Mr. Magoo_, drinking hot toddies and making Christmas cookies. We do it every year.

I don't know why this year is different. Leah and I haven't talked since our fight, but we did exchange some texts the other day. I sent her one saying I was going back to a support group and she texted back saying that she was out of line. Texts of apologies and love were exchanged. I didn't mention my all-nighters with Edward Cullen. I feel guilty about it, actually. I haven't told him, and in a sense, I haven't 'stopped seeing him.'

When Jasper called me this morning making convoluted excuses for the three of them, leaving me to my own devices, it really surprised me. At first I was a little mystified and now I'm just kind of hurt.

I could go to my dad and Sue's, but I can't help but wonder if this night is meant for couples. Families. Now that Jasper has someone, more than ever I'm a third wheel. More than ever I am the odd woman out.

More than ever I am wondering if that is just too weird for them.

I round the corner and find a group of teenagers, bedecked in red and green stocking caps, singing "O' Holy Night." The alto and sopranos dancing together, spinning words towards me, more relaxing than any massage, and I find a cold metal bench and hunch myself into it, my gloved hands still getting warmth from my cup.

Jake is at home. He waits for me.

And tomorrow… is Christmas.

I should be excited. I should be feeling the magic in this moment. As I do every year. Anticipating the aroma of nutmeg, which Sue adds to eggnog and her béchamel, simmering on the stove. Anticipating games galore, Embry yelling at the T.V., me getting worked over in Scattegories by Leah. Laughter and coffee and fresh grated parmesan cheese on top of an ooooey-gooey lasagna smorgasbord.

These things, small though they may be, that illuminated my heart in years past feel flat and insufficient in this moment.

Carols don't resonate. Christmas specials, into which I expect to easily lose myself, don't keep my attention. Being out alone on Christmas Eve, as night falls, as stores turn their signs from open to closed, as people huddle into themselves against the cold, it all feels disappointing.

I know it's me and my shitty attitude. Even my snark has become diluted and in my own ears sounds more like bitterness. Not humor.

I sigh, watching my breath fog before me. It was weird being back in a support group. Weird to say to a couple dozen other people that my name is Bella and I lost my right breast to cancer. The words felt so easy to say.

It just IS this way.

My name is Bella and I lost my right breast to cancer and I'm lonely and I'm scared that I always will be.

My name is Bella and I lost my right breast to cancer and I'm lonely and I'm scared that I always will be AND I fear that more than cancer, sometimes. Sometimes all I am is fear… all I am is cold… all my fire frozen, all my defense mechanisms broken.

It was an interesting group of people. I've never done a mixed support group before. There were men and women affected by cancer there. Some wearing hats, bandanas, beanies, hiding their heads, their small soft patches of whatever hair was left to them. I love my hair. I don't want to lose it.

And vanity. Such a silly thing, sometimes. My hair. I felt like I was flaunting my good health just by having it. But there was no judgment on anyone's face.

Because my hair grew back. My breast, well, that never did.

I'm not going to start another pity party. 2011 is almost over, and maybe 2012 will be better. Maybe next year, this time, things will be different for me. Better. I finish school next year and maybe a degree will change things. Maybe I can work a little less.

That would be nice.

When I think about 2012 being better, all I see is Edward Cullen's face. The way he tilts it towards the ground, looking up at me through his lashes. How could I? How could I be so immensely stupid as to develop feelings for such a man? It's like falling in love with Lancelot or Sherlock Holmes. It's impossible. For me.

I have to stop wishing for what cannot be and start focusing on the good things I have. Like I used to. I have to shake this funk that follows me around with dogged persistence. I have to find the things that make me happy and reunite myself with them.

Starting now. My dad is getting married. I am gaining a whole shit-ton of new family. I am really, really blessed. I am healthy and still clocking time on Earth.

I realize the carolers have moved on and there is no reason to remain perched here, my toes little ice cubes in my boots. Time to go home. Time for hot toddies and _Mr. Magoo_. Time for cookie batter and _Die Hard_ and _Home Alone_ and the smell of pine trees and cinnamon.

Time to go home.

On the way I flip on my new radio and find the music. Dean Martin is convincing some girl not to leave, and she is piling up the excuses even though she wants to stay. I sing along with his parts and her parts, but only half-heartedly.

_What's in this drink?_

_No cabs to be had out there…_

_Your eyes are like starlight…_

I wonder if Edward is going to call me tonight. I wonder how long this goes on. I wonder, to some extent, why it's already gone on for three nights. I wonder what he means when he says he wants more than friendship with me. I know what it means to me. I have no idea what it means to him.

I stop at the store to pick up butter and chocolate chips for cookies. I am eyeing the milk and contemplating if Santa will drink the almond milk I have in my fridge when I hear my name.

"Bella!"

I turn towards the sound and there is Katie charging up the aisle towards me, her Shirley Temple hair bouncing as she hurls herself into my arms. Garrett follows her, as relaxed as a seven year old can be on Christmas Eve. Behind them are Peter and Charlotte, he is carrying a basket full of sprinkles, frosting, and decorative dots.

Katie launches into a diatribe about how her gingerbread house is going to have a turret where sleeping beauty lives, and how she is going to grow her hair all the way down to her feet. The snow will heap up on the roof and she won't eat all the frosting this time. She makes me laugh. Her sweet tooth is well known up and down our street.

"Gingerbread houses, huh?"

Katie's dad nods at me while Charlotte rummages in her purse.

"I wouldn't mind having them over to my house, if you guys need… errr. ES-AY-EN-TEE-AY time." Garrett scowls at me. He and I talked earlier this week about Santa. Some jack-hole on the playground, before school let out for break, told him that Santa isn't real and he came to me for confirmation. He didn't want to ask his mom and Peter.

Garrett is a very serious child. He smiles easily with me, but I know that isn't the case with everyone. His mom and my neighbor have been together for a couple of years and I've never heard a peep about his real dad. He treats Peter like his dad.

He treats me like he trusts me. When my homework session was interrupted the other day by a tentative knock at my door and Garrett's first words to me were, "I want the truth…" I knew we were in for a heckova conversation.

And it was. We talked for almost an hour and towards the end Garrett promised me that he wouldn't ruin Christmas for Katie, who still believes. He is incredibly bright and challenged me to explain why he should lie to her. It was tough.

"Actually, we're headed over to my mom's in Marysville. Over the river and through the woods, and all that. But thanks, Bella."

"Sure thing. Drive safe, guys. Merry Christmas."

Katie bounces out of my lap and grabs Garrett's hand. He winks at me over his shoulder. Precocious seven year old boy.

I watch them go. Him and her and their inseparable kids. Everyone has someone tonight.

Grrrr. I am not going to start this again. I'm going to make my own fucking gingerbread house. I head to the candy aisle and buy sugary everything. Spicedrops and graham crackers and orange smiles and red-hots. I might just eat those.

I mull over potential designs in my head as I stand in line. I feel ornate. I feel like making turrets, like Katie. I feel like forced fanciful will make it real.

I'm wondering how hard it would be to make Hogwarts out of graham crackers and icing and am sort of committing to trying when I turn onto my street. Everyone has their lights on, even Peter, who isn't home. Mine is the only dark house on the street.

I pull into my driveway and struggle a little bit with my bags as I head up the walkway into the house. I dump all the stuff at my kitchen table, flip on the lights, the heat, and the tree as Jake prances around in his signature so-fucking-happy to see me dance. I give him a milkbone and push _Mr. Magoo's Christmas Carol_ into the VCR, speeding through the introductory stuff until I get to the opening scene.

I rummage in my cabinet for pie tins and bowls, a large wooden cutting board, some kitchen towels, tossing everything on the table before returning to the kitchen to make icing. I dump the ingredients into my Kitchen Aid and let it run as I make a pot of coffee.

Sudden inspiration hits and I go to my game closet, pulling out Weapons and Warriors: Castle Combat. It's an old game I play with Garrett sometimes, and it has little canons and catapults. Gingerbread Nottingham palace here we come. I am going to build a fortress out of graham crackers and confectioners sugar.

_Will we have a Christmas tree and on each branch a present? Some woffleberry cakes would be so nice. _

I am elbow deep in frosting and pondering what the heck a woffleberry is when an authoritative knock sounds from my front door. I check my watch before pressing my eye to the peephole.

I don't know if the feeling that grips my esophagus is anticipation or anxiety. I just know that I'm suddenly smiling.

Edward Cullen is on my porch.

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>I'm just not going to fucking fight this.<p>

The door swings in and there she is. Her hair up in its characteristic ponytail, her eyes dark in this light. Her scent coupled with the thick sweet fog of sugar wafting out the door and wrapping itself around me.

She has frosting in her eyebrow.

This feels normal.

I laugh. Her eyebrows shoot up and I think she realizes she has frosting caked into it. I move in and run my thumb over her brow, gripping the back of her head to keep it stable while I scrape frosting from her face. I can feel her eyes on me as the thin white paste accumulates on my finger.

"I feel like I'm four and my grandma is wiping my dirty face with a napkin from her purse."

"At least I didn't lick my finger first."

"Ew. My grandma was classy. She didn't slobber on me."

"Oh, well, I cannot claim the same. I have slobbered on you."

"Slobber is such a funny word. It makes me think of rabid dogs."

"That would be appropriate. Can I come in?"

She steps to the side and shuts the door behind me. I hand her the bag I brought so that I can shrug out of my coat and toss it over a chair. She hands the bag back to me and I decline with a gesture.

"For you."

She peeks in the bag and pulls out the bottle of Blanton's. Her smile, when she looks at it, is the reason I am here.

"What's this for?"

"Obviously, for you. On the condition of your sharing."

Her mouth tilts up on one side. I notice how dark the shadows are under her eyes. "Are you not sleeping well, Bella? Is it me – keeping you up?"

Her splinted hand goes immediately to the bluish circle under one eye, gently pulling the skin taught and I regret saying anything. Her quick smile is gone. I made her feel self conscious. Probably because I've mentioned her complexion before. The words hang between us and in them I feel the weight of how I must make her feel.

Not just thinking about yourself in every fucking moment. That is… what this is. Thinking of the feelings of others. Of her. With the precision of her feelings being mine.

"Never mind. You look beautiful. Even with frosting in your hair."

"Fuck. It's in my hair too?"

We head into the kitchen where she pulls two tumblers out of her cabinet as I uncork the aged bourbon and pour. The slim fingers of her left hand tap gently against the side of her glass and as soon as I move the bottle away she is lifting it to drink.

"Whoa. Hang on." I go back to where I set my jacket and pull a jar of dark sugared cherries from the pocket. I pop the top off and add a couple to her glass. There's that half smile again. With a touch of bewilderment.

I touch my glass to hers and breathe in the heady alcoholic fumes floating atop the liquor. We both sip and her eyes flutter closed, then open again as her cheeks bloom into pinkness.

"Nice. Thank you."

I look at the color. It is nice. Worth it. Way worth it if I can get one of her full bloom smiles. I may not be the kind of man who can take all her melancholy away, but I can try.

I can try.

"Bella."

"Yeah?"

"What is that horrible sound coming from your television?"

And there it is. She laughs her surprised exalted laughter. "That's _Mr. Magoo_. The ghost of Christmas past is showing him how sad and lonely he was as a child. You've never seen this?"

"Ugh... this kid cannot sing. This is terrible. Do you know the words to this?"

"I do."

"Please... Bella...drown them out."

"Are you asking me to… sing?"

"As soon as is humanly possible. Please."

Her smile fades slightly as her tentative voice squeaks out, "A hand for each hand was planned for the world... why don't my fingers reach?"

"Okay I was wrong. That is not helping."

She laughs. "You asked for it."

"I regret to say I've rarely been so wrong. Does this thing have a mute button?"

"No way. This movie is tradition. You just have to suffer."

"So... what's on tap for the evening? Are we moving from frosting facials to peppermint pink pedicures?"

"Nice alliteration."

"Thanks. I practiced that one in my head."

She scoffs. "Charmer."

I grin at her. I know it's wolfish, that's how I feel. I look over at her dining room table which is piled high with bags of candy and the graham cracker beginnings of some kind of structure.

"Gingerbread houses?"

"Gingerbread castle actually."

"Looks sort of puny to be a castle."

"Okay… a stronghold then. A castle outpost with weapons." She holds up a little slingshot cannon and wedges it into an embankment of frosting. Suddenly, I feel like I'm a kid again, eleven years old and Alice needs help building a "dream pool" for her Barbies because, despite our wealth, Fiona won't buy her one. Sure, she will stick the most expensive airsoft rifles in my hands, with the only condition being that I don't shoot animals, but Alice needs to "get creative." To this day I don't understand how that woman's mind worked.

She obviously didn't understand mine either. It was easy to hock the things she gave me for the cash to buy the things I actually wanted. She said nothing about the disappearance of her gifts to me, and nothing about the appearance of an antique metronome, a keyboard I would lay on top of the baby grand, the small 50 watt amp I would drag to the six car garage.

Bella still has frosting streaked up her forehead. I wonder what she was like as a child. If she played Barbie Dream House like Alice did. If she cut the hair off them, just a bit more, just a bit more, until they looked like creepy female Pinhead. I wonder if she had the convertible or the horse. Alice preferred the horse. Equestrian Barbie. We named it Cocoa-face and made it race in the derby on some days. Other days she was a war horse, going in and rescuing GI Joes, who we called Hobbits because they were so much tinier than Barbie and Midge, in all their long legged perfection. These are good memories from childhood. Playing with my kid sister.

"You have more graham crackers?"

I love this look on her face. The surprise mixed with excitement. Delight. For me. For me and I take it. I want it. I want her delight always to be mine. She gestures to the counter where there are several boxes. "I was going to try to make Hogwarts, where Harry Potter goes to school. I was overly ambitious."

I feel my eyes roll, but it's not condescending. It's a mirror of her delight. This is just one of many things I love about being near her. She is impractical about things that matter not one bit.

I grab a couple of boxes and open them up.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Bella? I'm going to build my own stronghold." I point at her. "Then yours is going down."

"Oh, it's like that, is it?"

"Oh, it is ABSOLUTELY like that. I'm a man. I make better war than you."

She quirks an unbelievably beautiful brow at me and I could just eat her whole expression. "Does that mean… that as a woman… I make better-"

I cut her off. "No, I've cornered that market too."

"I thought you don't… I thought you were just a fuck-machine."

I grin at her. "It's all the same, right?"

She narrows her eyes at me, her skepticism is plain on her face, but her eyes still gleam, "Wow, jack of all trades."

"Regular renaissance man."

"You need a lute."

"I can play that. With my eyes closed. It's like a flute right." I know exactly what a lute is.

She laughs. "No it's like… a banjo, I think."

"Banjo, flute. Whatever. Do you have another board like that?"

Her lip comes between her teeth in thought, before she disappears into her garage. I slide her board to one side of the table and start cutting my crackers carefully into shapes. She emerges again after a few minutes and hands me a big square of cardboard.

"This is the best I can do."

I take it from her and lay it out on my side of the table as she heads into the kitchen where she dumps more sugar into her mixer and turns it on, cracking eggs and adding them in. She lets it run. It makes a mechanical whining sound as she pours me a cup of coffee. "I don't know if this Half & Half is still good." She sticks her nose inside the spout and sniffs. "Smells okay."

She turns it around in front of her, looking for the expiration date. My eyes flicker over to the television where some kind of animated onion seems to be dancing around with his odd looking brothers and sisters. "Bella, why does that onion have a face?"

I pick up her scent as she hands me the mug of coffee and the carton of cream, turning towards the television and laughing. "That's Tiny Tim. He _does_ look like an onion."

"He needs to watch his back or he may end up in the razzle-tazzle gravy, or whatever he is singing about. Look he even comes with his own stir-stick."

"That's… his CANE."

And for some reason we are laughing like idiots. I haven't laughed… like this. In a very long time. But Bella doubled over her splint, which is tucked into her tummy, and all I can see of her forehead is a big streak of white frosting, is somehow hilarious. Especially when she asks me why this is so funny and I tell her I have no fucking idea why, it just is.

And it's just normal. To feel this way with her. To feel like me.

I put cream in my coffee, setting it to the side as I start to build. Bella goes back to her project across from me and occasionally I peek at her as she tries to build her graham cracker stronghold with her weaker hand. Her splinted hand isn't good for much, and she twists her body in weird ways to get her right hand at and angle where she can brace walls and frost them together. Her ponytail is starting to droop and when she divides the dark hair into two sections, pulling to tighten it back up, she leaves frosting there too.

I bite the inside of my cheek. These are the things about her that make my heart feel heavy inside my chest. Like she is worth more than anything I could ever hope to gift her with. Like I shouldn't be sitting here, I shouldn't be taking up time in her life. Time she could spend on someone worthy.

My mind wanders to the end of my last session with Rachel. I told her that I wanted to start again, that I felt if I could wind back the years of my life, I could redeem myself. She asked why I couldn't do it now. I told her… I don't know if I can.

She told me that the fact that I was there was evidence that I can. That years of my life will continue to pass and I can fill that time with the struggle of hating myself, or I can fill that time with the struggle of small steps towards something I want.

She used an analogy that reminded me of Bella. And Riley. Both. Sequoias don't grow over night. And they will never grow very tall without the right conditions. I have to find a way to make the right conditions around me. Step one, she said, is accepting the idea that I deserve to try.

She tapped right into exactly what I was asking myself, quietly, in that chair. Did I deserve to even try? Not whether I was capable of it, but my own battle of self punishment.

"Edward. It is in the nature of humans to make mistakes. If you didn't, if you didn't learn from them, you would not be human, you would be a fossil. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"If you continue punishing yourself, is it really atonement for anything? Or is just a perpetuation of the same mistakes?"

"I don't know."

"I want you to consider it, okay? Consider, if you can, how much atonement there is in anger. Consider how much there is in forgiving."

It felt fucking preachy. Like fucking… something I would hear in church. But… I know Rachel isn't a God-freak. Riley was probably the only hippie in our regiment. Just as much an outcast as myself. Just as much a man who was unfit for service. You could tell it by looking at him. You could tell it when you talked to him.

When he spoke of how there are no time-outs in the Corps. You don't get babied because you have shin splints and the enemy doesn't stop firing on you because you need to reload. You don't get to nap just because you need one desperately, there aren't extra rations when you're still hungry, and if you don't learn to be alert in every moment, then you end up dead. There is no home-base where you can't be tagged. There is no pause. Not even on leave. While you're a Marine, your life is about being a Marine.

The Corps… an extreme place all its own. A place of alert or dead.

I asked him once, why he joined. And his answer reflected my own. "I don't know, man. I thought it was the right thing to do."

We both learned just how wrong that sentiment was**. **

Maybe it's because my hands have been still for several moments that Bella looks up at me, her good hand pinching together two squares of graham cracker, frosting like mortar to hold them together. What my face looks like, I have no clue, but I can taste the coppery flavor of blood in my mouth, likely seeping from where my teeth are clenching into the smooth flesh of my cheek. "You okay?"

I nod and look down at my half-constructed outer wall.

What good does my hate do anyone? My anger at Liz, at Fiona, at Carlisle, at the world, at myself. What good can my hate do for Bella?

I only know it could do a lot of bad. I only know that inside this fucked up body, somewhere in my confused as fuck brain, there exists something new putting pressure on me to try. I don't know how to separate us in my mind now. I don't like the contrast between how I feel when I'm with her, and how I feel when I'm not with her.

It almost feels like a different kind of desperation.

It doesn't go away. I can't drink it away or sleep it away. I can't fuck it away, either. I assume. Because I haven't touched a woman since Irina, whose name feels like poison, my memories of her blurry and nauseating.

Since Virago last week, I haven't even tried.

I'm watching her again. I wonder if she knows she's humming along with the musical. "Bella?"

"Yeah?" She doesn't look up from pressing a gumdrop into a mound of frosting.

"Is this shit almost over?" I gesture towards the TV and she looks over my shoulder at it.

"Probably about five minutes to go. They are just about to start the final musical number."

"Any chance you could mute it?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

"Is that a no, then?"

She just gives me a look, but again, her eyes are smiling. And again, mine are too.

When it ends she offers me my choice between _Die Hard_, _Home Alone_ or _The Ref_. I raise a brow at her and she puts in _Die Hard_. It all goes back to being background noise as we continue construction of our respective gingerbread forts. I am mounding gum drops into a bunker when I see Bella's hands slow to a stop.

She's watching me. I look up at her. If there was one word for Bella's eyes in this moment it would be 'sly'.

"Are you cheating?"

"How could I possibly cheat?" she asks, right as a ball the size of a small pebble launches out of the small canon in her hand, hitting the table pathetically short of its target and rolling to the floor. I just shake my head at her.

"Lame."

"Yeah," she admits as she loads another marble.

"I'm not exactly ready. Don't you think that's a little… cheaty?"

She answers as she pulls back the firing mechanism on the toy. "I know your type, you will sit there all night fortifying your defenses and then I stand no chance. This is my stealth attack."

"Stealth?"

"Just go with it." Another marble hits the table, this one closer to my fort. I palm it before it can roll to the floor. I rummage in her game box and come out with a similar launching mechanism. "Are there… rules of engagement?"

I can't see her face, obscured as it is by her gingerbread monstrosity, as she hunches down, leveling her sightline along the catapult. "Hmmm. Rule number one. No rules."

And she fires. I watch the marble arc in the air between us and I know the shot is good. I reach out easily and catch it before it can hit my pile of crackers and frosting. Her stubborn sigh is adorable as she reaches for more artillery. She manages to get a handful before I snatch the box and pull it over to my side.

"Not fair!"

"You said no rules."

"Yeah, but…"

"And, Bella. You started this." I fire a shot that hits the side of her fort, chipping away a section of cracker, and I give her a consoling look. Tough break. She snarls at me and loads another ball.

I pay more attention to her and her focus as I casually fit another marble into my catapult. This shot takes out the tip of one of her "turrets" and gets lost inside the structure. She smiles and fires at me. I wait and watch, collecting each marble that comes my way until she only has one small orange sphere left in her ever shrinking pile.

"Better make that one count," I tease.

But she doesn't. The ball bounces and rolls right into my waiting hand.

She shrugs deliciously and says, by way of explanation, "There must be frosting in the little gear thingie."

"Always make sure your firearms are clean and serviced."

Her face changes, going from mock defeat back to sneaky and I narrow my eyes at her, just as another ball flies into the side of my front facing graham cracker wall. This one she got off good. It punched a hole the size of a silver dollar into the cracker facade.

Then she's up and dancing. And singing.

"DAMAGE! Uh! DAMAGE! Uh! DAMAGE! Destruction, terror, and mayhem!"

Her dance is comical, she looks like a cartoon, fist pumping and shaking her ass in circles around her kitchen. Her eyes are giddy and fiery and happy as she jumps to a stop right in front of me. "Momma said knock you out!"

"I knew you were a cheater."

"No rules."

I want to kiss her. I want to taste her mouth and haul her into me by her ass, also streaked with frosting from each time she wiped her hands on the back of her jeans. It's been so long.

All the other times it had been so easy.

I wanted to kiss her and I did.

This time, as my gaze explores her face, taking in its fineness, her lush lashes, her smattering of freckles, gold flecked skin – or whatever Bella's trash novel had referred to it as – and her smile, it feels like if I can just close the distance between us, in this moment, it will be all I have to do. All I have to do. It will place her firmly in my life, in my whole history, in every place I've ever been, make her bear witness to everything I've ever done.

And she has to accept that. If she does, I can have her future. I can be entrenched in everything she will ever do. Every emotion in her heart will be mine.

I will do all the crazy things I always wondered about. Like letting go of everything. It's a trade. My life, for our life. All of the bad, for all of your good. All the failures, for all the possibilities.

That isn't a fair trade.

No promises, no expectations.

Her good hand is on my face now. Her thumb pressing against my cheekbone.

"Your whole face just changed before my eyes."

"Did it?"

"From hunger, to wonder, to sadness."

"Astute."

"You have that look… like you are about to break into flight. It has a panicky edge to it."

"I think it's my break into alcohol look." I take her hand from my face and move around her to refill my glass.

She's fast, moving between me and the counter I was headed towards.

"Why? Tell me why your face changed like that. You look like someone ran over your puppy and then bought you another one and ran over that one too."

I can feel my face settling into its hard contours. Its odd, to feel the portcullis come down with so much more understanding as to why. She sees it too. Her dark eyes are full of me.

"No. Stay."

"I'm not going anywhere, Bella."

"You are. You're… leaving… right in front of me. Shutting down, shutting me out." And her hand shoots out, for a second I think she's reaching for my dick, but she presses her hand against the phone in my pocket. "You talk to me on the phone… every night. But in person… I scare you? Why? Tell me. What is the worst that can happen?"

She has graham cracker on her face. I wipe it away and brush my hand against my own jeans.

"I don't know… words… said to you… can't be taken back. Like when I called you malnourished. I can never… get that moment back."

"You want that moment back?"

"That one. Others too."

"Is that why your faced changed? Because you were thinking… that I look sick?"

"No. You look… beautiful."

"Then I give you that moment back. It's gone. Fill it now, with something else."

"What? It doesn't work that way-"

"It's Christmas Eve. No rules. I say… it does."

"Bella, you can't just… un-hear. Something… you heard."

"Maybe YOU can't." Her eyes close, big crescent shadows forming over her cheeks. "Now… when I think about that moment… I can see your face, but all I hear is the teacher in Charlie Brown. Wahhh wahhh whhhhahhh. Your face looks rather bewildered actually. Like you didn't realize you could speak a foreign language. I don't though, Edward. I took one in high school, don't remember any of it. The only thing I can say in another language is Alis Volat Propriis. You taught me that."

And her eyes are open again. "Don't dwell on all the shit between us. Good things happened too."

"Like that night, when I threatened to take Lauren home with me?"

"But you didn't. Unless you lied."

"No. I didn't lie."

"Not lying. Good things."

I shake my head at her. I don't want to play make-believe.

"Okay. I'm imagining that moment… give me new words and we can remake it."

"I don't have new words."

"Don't you?"

"This is… stupid, Bella. I can't change the way I remember that day. Nor can you. It's also… irresponsible. That moment… I was saying to you… exactly what I was thinking. _That's_ the truth. It's all the words I have. I can't… shouldn't… take them back. Because… I was showing you my nature. I'm a bastard. I think you called me one that day. Or a blowhard… or something. AND _you _were being honest, about how you saw _me_. Why should we cover our honesty in a lie?"

"You can look at it that way. And I agree. I guess, what I'm saying… is… just… you let your mouth run when you have something shitty to say to me. I know you think good things about me too, or you wouldn't call me in the night-"

I open my mouth and she shakes her head defiantly at me. "Don't argue with me here. Why is it you can let your mouth run something awful, but not something good? And if what you were just thinking is bad… if it's the truth… why not tell me? Show me your nature, Edward. Don't you think I've seen you at your worst, already? Don't you think I've heard it, already?"

She's in my face, hers imploring and open. Not the angry fire we usually spit at each other when we're this close. Something just as impassioned, but different. Pleading.

"The worst – Edward? When you handed me that water-bottle like I was just your maid. Not your friend. Nothing to you. You can't possibly hurt me worse… than you did. In that moment you turned everything between us into shit."

Because that is what I do. "Bella…"

"Shhh. This is me… giving you my honesty. Asking for yours. Is that what you need me for? To be… some sort of peon to you… some sort of whipping boy? Someone you can secretly confide in but never openly care for? Is that what this is? Do you just need someone to feel your pain?"

No… I need her to feel everything else. I shake my head. Nothing I say now will be right. "I apologized for… what I did that night. I meant it for… everything I did. Including that."

"Not including. Only. Only apologize to me for that. Everything else, I already forgave you for."

"That doesn't… that doesn't make any fucking sense, Bella."

"No?"

"No."

"You think I didn't know you'd have a harem around you? You think I don't SEE you? That you drink yourself to oblivion and more? That I couldn't tell that you were out of your fucking head. You were twitching for Christ's sake. You think that your struggle doesn't radiate off you?" She laughs bitterly. "You radiate something. You burn me."

"How do you remember all this shit that I say? See, this is why I'm afraid to talk, you remember fucking everything."

"Do you forget… the things I say to you?"

"No." It's more a breath than a word. At least, I don't think I do. I hope not. Her eyes, mere inches from mine, making me believe I could never forget anything that she did.

She shakes her head at me and agrees. "No. Don't you think we should move past hiding? Past fighting? Why are we so afraid to just… be who we are?"

These are all… good questions.

I don't want to be afraid any more…

So I kiss her.

And it's like the first time. Ever. With anyone. It's the only kiss that has ever mattered.

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.******

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

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><p><strong>AN: **

Hey everybody. I hope you will take a quick minute to read this authors note.

I will try to keep it short so you can get into the chapter. I just want to say that although I immersed myself in quite a bit of research to make sure I get this chapter right (and the next one) I am not a Marine. I have never been to the Greater Middle East. I have never been in combat or gone hungry. I have tried to do all these concepts, and more justice in this chapter. If I didn't, please feel free to let me know. I appreciate the experiences and wisdom of all my readers. I wish I had the ability to reply to all of your reviews, please know that I read them and I learn from you. A lot.

I would like to invite you to my facebook group. Find the link and chapter music/visuals on my blog: ireenh. blogspot. com (Just take out the spaces and plop that link into your browser window.)

I would like to mention some people who help me tame this beast:

**Dragonfly336 - **Consummate Professional. **BelieveItOrNot - **Midnight Reader Extraordinaire. Can clean with her eyes closed. **D**reaminginNorweigen - ****Makes me laugh wine all over my keyboard. ****M**oirae - ******Author of some library sex that makes me want to go back to college and harass film students. **ShellisThimbles - **Finding beauty in the words of others while writing gorgeousness of her own.

I would link you to all their profiles but FFn is a snarf-head. I think I had some other stuff I needed to say, but I'm coming up blank. So let's just get to it - yeah? I hope you enjoy it. See you on the other side.

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems.  
>You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.<p>

~Rumi

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><p>***BPOV***<p>

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><p>When Edward's lips touch mine, skim mine, his nose nudging mine, asking my permission, I feel like the bottom has dropped out of my cerebellum. Or my cerebral cortex. Or my stomach.<p>

All of me. All I am is breath, caught in my own throat, tangled into myself.

Because -

This is different. This is restraint - harnessed power. This is tears unshed, questions unasked.

I don't feel his intent or his seduction or his pulse or his cock against my navel. I don't feel his hunger or his need or his inferno.

All I feel is love.

And I don't know who it belongs to. It's blurry and flowing in and out of me, whispering along my skin, the inside of it. The underside of me. It's the thick smoke creeping against my lungs, the fog off the ocean making everything within it invisible.

This can't be just me feeling this. It's too big for me. It's enormous.

All I hear is the same stupid question everyone keeps asking me.

_What did you do to your hand?_

I fell.

_Where?_

I fell from fluffy clouds into the scratchy indifference of green, green grass. It grew around me while I watched. I spread a blanket and made a picnic. There was whiskey and wine and rain and ballet, all in the grass that grew up around me. Wasps pestered me as I tried to eat, never leaving me alone. Buzzing frantically around finger sandwiches and cake with frosting gone runny in the heat. Fondant and fruit and the futility of all of this.

My heart, bruised and pulsing, pushed right into my neck, blood like fire behind my eyelids.

I am not a saint nor a savior. I cry tears, not blood. My lashes are wet with them.

My lips are wet with something else. Edward.

He gently pushes aside all my words with soundless ones of his own. Caress, suck, feel, touch.

It's touch.

Touch. More.

His touch, and my soul sings with it.

It's not lust rippling through me. It's not fear. It's not his scent making my knees liquefy and my heart throb.

It's him. It's me. It's feeling - myself. It's an immense giving of myself, whole and real and capable.

I'm not a saint or a savior.

What I am is a woman.

I am a half-self, not because of anything I lack, but because what I need to complete me exists in this man.

His hands brush my hips on their way around to cradle me right in the curve of my thighs, and I'm hoisted up onto the counter as Edward fits himself between my knees, deepening the kiss.

Deeper, but still slight and soft. Deeper, but still slow and questioning.

In answer I place my splinted hand against his chest.

His hand leaves my hip, his fingers curling around mine, his thumb running against my palm just under the opening of the splint, as he moves my hand from his sternum, a mere inch to his left, tugging it, applying the slightest pressure to it. Forcing my knuckles right against the beating of his heart.

His lashes, sooty at the root and flaming at the tip, sweep upward, pushing against the weight of his wild eyebrows. In his eyes is something I feel but don't quite understand. I feel it in my chest, a great expectation, thudding and sucking the blood from every other part of me. Especially my brain, which feels deprived. Parched.

His face. His face is so beautiful. So determined.

His lips part. "Bella, I…"

I see the change of direction register in the golden, green depths of his marbled eyes. "I was shot."

His hand pulls mine, one beat longer against his heart, before sliding over his cream colored thermal to the ridge of his scar. With his thumb he unfolds my hand and presses the soft pads of my fingertips against it. His chest feels damaged, even through the rough fabric; like someone took a big bite out of him and then stitched the skin closed.

"The bullet shattered two of my ribs and punctured my lung. The body armor I was wearing, at the time, was later recalled. It was designed for shrapnel, not bullets. Apparently, Marines are supposed to get blown up, not shot." His fingers clench mine. I don't know what my face looks like, but his looks like tightly controlled terror.

He lets his breath out. "I was shot by a twelve year old boy named Umar. An orphan. My squad found him three years before in a village outside of Kabul. He was tiny for a nine year old, underfed, hiding behind an old armoire. His mother was dead. I don't know how long he'd been there, on his own.I don't know why he climbed into my arms that night. Maybe because…" His sentence dies away and he shakes his head before continuing. "I don't know. I'll never know."

His voice is steady, resolute, as he tells me this. Like he's recounting someone else's life, someone else's brush with death. There is nothing comparable to the weight of my grief for him, my fear surging all through me, head to foot, as I wait for him to go on. My fingers curl gently into his pectoral muscle, almost unconsciously, as I try to bring him into my arms.

"I had picked up some Pashto, and he spoke a little English. We spoke directly to one another, usually. Even at nine, I don't think he trusted our 'terp, so he… he went to great lengths to make himself understood to me. He called me Private Edvard, though I was a Lance Corporal by that time. I called him Private Umar and he… clung to me. He didn't know where his father was. He wanted to go to Peshawar. His mother was planning to take him. But, it was late in the year, winter was coming. Winter... in Afghanistan, another extreme. I don't know if I mentioned that the other night. Extreme winters. Especially in Kabul. Have you ever been to Denver?"

I shake my head. I can feel the confusion pulling my eyebrows down.

"Mile high city. Kabul is at a similar elevation, higher, with the Hindu Kush all around. Anyway. He didn't want to go to the orphanage, but he went. On the condition that I came to visit him. I did."

He is trying to keep his tone light, but running through it is a palpable hesitancy. It's in his face, too.

He pulls his wallet out of his back jean pocket and hands me a worn clipping from a magazine. My heart nearly bursts to see Edward, younger, his face dirty and sweaty, but smiling at whoever took the picture. On his shoulders with a small American flag is an underweight olive skinned boy, not smiling, clutching at Edward's helmet with slim fingers. "Alice sent me that. It was in Newsweek." The copyright on the photo says 2002.

"No." It's all I can say before I feel the tear slide over my cheek.

Edward nods stiffly as he takes the clipping back, tucking it away in his wallet. "My first deployment was relatively easy, all things considered. Three-six had already secured Kabul province in 2001, before I got there, so we spent a lot of time training with the ANA and protecting the embassy. I saw Umar almost every day. Until the day I came back from leave and he was gone. Disappeared from Tahir Maskan… a few months after this photo. I ended my tour not knowing what happened to him. I tried to make inquiries, and the people of Tahir Maskan… they wanted to help me. But… he had just… vanished."

"I'm sorry," I breathe. Somehow, despite his factual tone, I can hear the frustration and fear he must have felt, to lose a small boy in the midst of a war-torn country.

"I was sent back to Kabul in 2005. Things there were a little uneasy in Afghanistan and there was some heavy fighting going on, especially along the border with Pakistan. We were delivering supplies and trying to ferret out ratlines between Kabul and the Khyber when a boy opened fire on my squad. He was small and a little wild with the AK. He fired at all of us, but he only hit me."

"No."

"A friend of mine…" He shakes his head before going on. "In the Corps, you're trained to kill. As a Marine, you're a marksman first. A rifleman. No matter what else you are, you are that first. And… you don't question who is firing on you, you fire back. My squad returned fire."

He swallows, closing his eyes. "It happened in seconds… but the… memory feels like…"

I watch him take a breath and let it out. As much as I fear the imagery that must be playing out in his mind, I wish I could see it. I wish I could share it. To understand.

"I was breathing my own blood. And bone. As I watched him get nearly torn in half by…" He chokes. My hand is instantly on his neck, in his hair, pulling him into me. He resists, keeping his spine rigid. His eyes pierce me when they find my face. So verdant, expressing the things he doesn't have words for. Things he can't name or speak aloud.

"This is what I dream of, Bella."

"You relive this… every night?"

"No. Some nights, I don't dream. Some nights, I am the shooter. Some nights, I am the shot. Most dreams, I'm trying to get Umar to the medic, and I have to cross miles and miles of rocky, dusty terrain. Moondust. I dream of moondust."

I'm about to ask what he means by _moondust _when his hands cup my face. "And sometimes… it's not Umar, it's you."

I think my lungs just collapsed. I swallow. "Me?"

"I had a friend in the Corps. Lance Corporal Biers… he lost it… after this incident. I was medevacked out to Bagram. And Riley… well. He ended up getting sent stateside for mental incapacity. He's… barely functional. Even now. Even now, Bella. And me… I'm not… any... fucking... better. Marginally functional… is what I am. This is what I am. No more hiding."

He definitely isn't hiding. His hands tremble slightly against my face.

"I hate... so much. Myself the most. Sometimes… you."

"Me?" I say again.

"It's… It's irrational. It… I expect you to make me better. To take away all of it. And you can't. I don't get to escape from this. I don't get to hide… in you… the way I do… with other women. Do you understand?"

His voice is pressing me, frantically, his fingers nudging my head on my neck. I cover his hands with mine, we both grip my face. He doesn't get to hide in me?

"Because we aren't sleeping together?"

He lets me go; dragging a hand through his hair, reaching next to me for the Blanton's to fill his cup. I don't try to stop him this time. I watch him chug it like water. My throat burns for him, his eyes are watery when he places the cup back on the counter next to me. He refills the glass, but doesn't drink from it. He just watches the viscous liquor settle into the glass. Then he talks to it.

"I'm… over the line, Bella. I knew there would be… one step too many. I took one step too many. Like that last drink that puts you over. I'm over the legal limit."

I search his face, not quite sure what he's trying to tell me. I know I'm not actually answering him when I say, "Then stay. Stay here tonight. Don't drive home."

He finally brings his eyes to mine, giving me his half smile and nodding, more to himself than to me, before backing away and leaning against the opposite counter. I slide from where I was perched down to the floor, looking up at him again. Somehow, he seems bigger than he ever has. His face is stark, his mouth pinched in and his eyes appear to be made of endless fatigue. Made of things I can't begin to imagine. The vastness of a foreign land, a foreign way of life. A foreign way to die.

All of the sudden I feel exhausted. The long nights with little rest echoing in my bones, and all of me wants to just bend into rubbery sleep.

"I'm… so tired, Bella."

We hold each other's gaze for a heavy moment. I feel every inch of the space between us. Crossing it will be like taking the first step into a chasm whose opposite side is barely visible. There are no maps for where I need to go now. I need to draw my own.

I take his hand and lead him, like a child, into my bedroom. He gives me a questioning look and starts to open his mouth. I don't know what for but I shush him, guiding him backwards onto my bed. He sits and I squat down to unknot the laces of his boots. When I pull them off, his toes wiggle under his bright, clean sock. I squeeze them with careful fingers, tugging, and he gives me a surprised look.

The surprise turns to intensity when I reach for his belt buckle, pulling the leather through the silver clasp and sliding it from the loops of his jeans, letting it curl into itself on the floor. I look up into his eyes, and I see that he knows.

He knows this is comfort. He looks relieved.

In that understanding, with more tenderness than I thought him capable, he pulls the pony tail holder cleanly from my hair and it tumbles down around my face. Then his fingers are in my hair, rubbing little circles against the weary skin underneath, as if he heard my scalp scream its discomfort, the painful shift in directional command uttered by every strand when it fell from its binding.

After a moment, I wrap my hands around his wrists and push them down. He's stronger than me, bigger than me, but his arms fold under mine, and I push him back into my bed. He goes down easy, reaching for me, trying to bring me with him, but I step back.

"Do you want to keep your jeans on or take them off?"

He crooks his elbow over his eyes and says, "Don't care. Off."

I undo the button fly with hesitant hands, slow and uncertain, not sure if I'm ready for Edward Cullen in his underwear. His boxers are incredibly soft, black and charcoal plaid, worn. So unlike the crisp newness of all his fine suits. I try to ignore the small single button holding closed the gap at his crotch, as he lifts his ass for me to work his pants down his legs.

I can see the shape of him through his boxers, semi-erect and curved slightly to his left, and I move my eyes down his legs.

His knees make him so human. So vulnerable looking, they make me think of the child he must have been once. Eons ago, but every spurt of growth forgotten in this simple hinge and pivot joint. I palm one kneecap, fitting its angles into my hand. His arm moves and I see him raise a brow at me in question.

"I'll be right back. Get comfy."

He nods and I go back to the front of the house to lock the door, kill the TV and the lights. I shake a couple of graham crackers out of the box and onto a plate. I put Edward's glass of bourbon, together with the plate, next to the tree, but high up so Jake won't get into it. And then I head back into my room with Jake's claws clicking the floor behind me.

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><p>***EPOV***<p>

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><p>I sit up and pull off the thermal, tossing it to rest atop my jeans and shoes.<p>

Climbing under Bella's smooth white sheets, feeling the weight of her deep purple comforter. This feels normal. Pressing my face into the pillow beneath me, I breathe in the smell of her neck, the scent of her hair.

Normal.

More than that. Comforting. I feel different than I expected to. The words, speaking them, the telling, somehow it was easier than I thought it would be. Easier than talking to Rachel, even easier than batting them around in my mind. I didn't realize it, but to some extent, it's okay for a woman to see you weak, to let her... care for you. To let her cry for you. When you can't. It's okay. It feels normal.

Woman as compliment to man. Bella as my compliment.

Slowly, then all at once, I feel that last glass of Blanton's permeate my blood. I cross my arms over my face as my brain gives me nonsense. My fingers thrum with my pulse. My vision isn't turned off, just blocked by my eyelids and arm, and the explosion of veins fill my sight, blooming and spreading red through the darkness of my mind, like some kind of psychedelic dream sequence.

_Do you want to be the pillow where I lay my head, do you want to be the feathers lying in my bed? Do you want to be a color cover magazine; create a scene. Every day a little sadder, a little madder… someone get me a ladder._

The red shifts its shape and I see my fingers moving swiftly over the big white smile of the baby grand. Plucking out ELP, and in my mind "Still... You Turn me On" fades into "Take a Pebble." I can hear myself - I'm singing. In my mind is music. As I sink deeper into this bed, I sink deeper into her scent. I can feel her hair brushing against me as I play. I can feel her mouth. I am exposed and imagining her hands, sliding up underneath my shirt, feeling my ribs, finding the spot that hurts when I breathe in too deep, or when I try to bear my weight on my left arm. Pressing me there. A phantom of this cyclonic melt-state, where I play and tingle and start to slip into sleep. All of Bella pressing into my most hollow canyon, curling into it. Filling it. Bringing it back to life.

Intercostal nerve damage. To my dominant side. Left handed. Right brained. Left wounded. Right up until now.

_White lace and feathers, they made up his bed. A gold covered mattress on which he was led…_

I can hear Bella in her bathroom, water running as she brushes her teeth. There is a clink –clank, followed by the soft sound of her opening and closing the adjoining door. I sense her moving around the bed, and when I lift my arm the room is dark, illuminated dimly by the bright moon peeking through a gap in the cloud cover, shining in through the open curtains.

I can see her silhouette. Her back is to me and she's changing her clothes, sliding her long legs into pajamas. The tattoo down her right side is just a blur against her skin. Then she's facing me, stooping down to the bed, feeling her way towards me.

It's normal.

I reach for her and pull her into me. She melts like so much taffy left in the sun, all her pieces, all her parts coming flush to mine, running soft and sweet as I bring her close. Everywhere her body touches me is warm and indistinct - the edges between us fuzzy in my intoxicated mind. My intoxicated body responds to her. Her hairline brushes my lips and I whisper into it that I'm sorry.

"For what?" Her voice collects against my neck, and I nudge into her a little. _For being a fucking primate who can't turn it off. _But I don't say anything. She knows and her laugh is small and quiet against me. "I don't mind."

I feel like I could wrap my arms around her twice, even with hers tucked up between us, her splint pressing into my ribs like last weekend. But still I long to pull her closer. Never close enough. I can feel her content; it oozes from her skin to mine in waves, like I'm holding a small mortal quasar. Surge, surge surge, little star. Surge. She could be purring like a kitten right now. Hum, hum, hum. Hum, little kitten. Hum your content into me.

I feel it in me.

This is why I can't stay away. This is why I am compelled close to her. The protection of my body feels like her satisfaction, her relaxation, her aura of wellness and divinity. I give that to her by bringing my body close to hers. She feeds it back to me in her silent, serene way.

She shifts against my arm as she tilts her face up to me in the darkness. The dim light from the moon etches her face in silver and shadow, it matches her tone when she asks, "Did you get the present I left for you?"

"At the office?"

"No. I was downtown earlier. I left it with the receptionist for your building."

"I haven't been there since this morning."

"Mmm."

Surge, purr. It's like holding a D Minor until it fades away, until the last quiver of vibration in the air is just a faint memory. You can still, almost, hear the buzz of it, full and faint but definitely gone. It hangs in the air, the vibrating air, like a spider bouncing in her web.

_A blanket of moss will cover the earth and I'll know that the day came…_

The lyric springs to mind and I give voice to the conviction that I have Bella's favorite song running through my head. "'The Day.'"

"Hmm?"

"Your favorite song on the album. On _Good Morning, Magpie_. Is it 'The Day'?"

She nuzzles her face into my chest. "How did you guess?"

I make a casual sound of dismissal and then quote the words she said to me after our date. "Well, it's easily the best song on the album."

"Is it your favorite, too?"

I feel her smile against me when I say, "No. Another one… grabbed me."

In my muddled mind I can feel her thinking, so like I did, that night. Going through the track listing one by one, trying on a song, feeling it out as my favorite, weighing possibilities. I lay quiet and let her think.

Finally she speaks. Her voice is small and tentative, venturing. "Okay. I have a guess."

"Okay."

"And no offense, okay?"

I chuckle into her hair. "In advance, none taken."

"'King of the Gutters, Prince of the Dogs.'"

"Good guess, but no."

Again I feel her mind turn. Again I wonder how I wrap my hands around her thoughts. How do I bring them closer to me, into me? Easy. I ask.

"Why did you think that one?"

"There's a line in it… that reminded me of 'Midnight in Harlem.' It goes something like… _t__he moon pulls the sea and our eyes to the ground, our feet pound… but there's no one around. The star of the night, the room fills with light, the sky makes a deafening sound._ Sort of… like… _the stars are out there, we can almost feel them move. _ I love that line. So vivid, like being on the beach and looking up into the night sky, your eyes clear of city lights, and you can see the whole Milky Way… a huge spiral galaxy all around you. I don't know. I think I just love space."

Little quasar, indeed. "Makes you feel small."

"Does it? I always feel, yes. Small, I guess. Wondrous. Always I have this feeling of the infinite. And where does that… end? What's on the other side of the edge of the universe? Is it God? Is it… just… another universe? I can't fathom the end of everything."

I imagine Bella floating in space like Major Tom, spinning in a tin can at the edge of the universe, trying to put her hand through some kind of plasma barrier in order to touch the other side. It's absolutely what she would do. She would fearlessly find the edge and put her fingers into it. Like how she reaches out and into me.

I find her mouth in the darkness. My mind churns and speaks to her without sound.

I am in awe of you. I want your vastness and your beauty to be mine. Make them a contagion and infect me. I want to taste your mind and your soul and everything under your lashes, under your skin. I want to be the liquor in your glass. I want to burn you from the inside.

I want to brand you with my name.

I never cared for it before, but now it's mine and I want to light you up with it. With your mouth saying it. I don't have words. I only have actions. I only have the reflex of tightening my arms around you. This is all I have. All I have that matters. Not my money or my history. Not pain. Not even my protection. Just me. Just me.

I spin without moving. I take her with me, sinking, sinking.

Aching. Needing. And then the cool air hits my mouth as she pulls away and sings gently. _"Stubbles comin' in strong, scratch your soft skin raw, like a mean mutt with a razor maw…" _ Her tone is atrocious. I don't care.

"_Swipe along my neck and against my jaw? _No. Guess again. Last one."

"Hmmm. Kiss me again?"

"Does that help?"

"Immensely."

So I do. And I cheat. I don't know why. But again, I'm compelled. I hum into her mouth as I kiss her. Particularly the cello. The music floats in front of my closed eyes. I can almost see the notation, like I wrote it. And then the lyrics. She smiles against my mouth, and I know she has it.

She sings, _"You rode towards the sun as it guides you home, but don't be afraid little bird, you aren't alone."_

In the dark, against her mouth, I sing with her. Then to her as she quiets and lets me.

The lyrics are fucking sappy, but it's true. And this song, to me, is her. Her light can be rekindled, by the same hand that snuffed it. Mine.

I may not be able to take all her melancholy.

But I can fucking try.

Her eyes are huge and dark. They glitter fiercely in the shallow light. "I love it when you sing."

"Do you?"

Her nod is slight. "You don't do it very often."

"No."

"You don't like to?"

"Not especially."

"Well, you have a beautiful voice."

The bed is quiet, still, and so are we. Her eyes close and I just look at her.

Ownership. Archaic, as it applies to a person. But not.

I understand that with a kind of harsh clarity. This girl is mine. Claimed. That means I have to please her, guard her, be open to her, open her to me. Ruin her. In the sense that she never wants to leave. I crossed the line, stepped over it, stepped into uncertainty. Into the fear that she won't want me, that she won't tolerate me. That I can't live up to her expectations of me. That I have to go back to the other side of the line, where I have to exist without her.

Fear. Not the intense, blood-pumping terror of combat, but a subtle pervasive uneasiness. It turns my core to cool running water. A stream of flowing vulnerability.

"Edward?"

"Yes, Bella?"

She doesn't speak right away and I find myself wondering how much of my face she can see. Likely most of it is in darkness.

"Do you think Umar knew it was you? Did he shoot you... on purpose?"

"I don't know. Does it matter?" Somehow, I can't say yes. If I say yes, then he did.

"I'm just… trying to remember me at that age."

"Why?"

"I don't think... I don't know. I think I knew right from wrong, when I was twelve. Still, in retrospect, it feels like so long ago. Garrett, my neighbor, he's only seven and he knows. He needs a little guidance sometimes, but I can't imagine him… even holding a gun."

"Bella… you didn't grow up in Afghanistan. You, and Garrett too, can't ever understand, not completely, a boy like Umar. Not only were your upbringings entirely different… but your values, your indoctrinations, everything. EVERYTHING you see and touch and think on a daily basis is so far removed from his life. You are an American. He was Pashtun. You might as well be trying to equate photosynthesis with digestion. It's absolutely, completely different."

"Some things are universal though. Aren't they?"

"Like hunger and betrayal? How often did you go hungry as a child, Bella?"

"Not once."

"How often did you step outside your house and find trucks full of men with guns screaming down your street? How often did your mother have to wait for an escort just to go to the market? When your mother died, did you fear going to an orphanage where it was possible to freeze to death in winter?"

"No." Her voice is thick and I wonder if I've made her cry. I run my thumb against her smooth cheek.

"I'm sorry... I just... you can't imagine Umar's life or his motivations. You can... you can try, Bella, but you can't. I'm glad you can't."

"I _can_, though. I think." She interrupts and before I can say anything her hand is back on my face, her thumb running over the scratchy growth at my chin. "Do you blame him, Umar, for shooting you?"

A bubble of anger rises in my chest. Ripe with disgust, it bursts and I swallow. "Of course not. Fuck."

"Do you blame yourself for his death?"

"That's… that's different."

"Is it?"

"Of course it is."

She's quiet again and I can feel her contemplation in the silence.

"When you're young, you trust your parents, they define your world. They give you everything, your identity, your safety. Everything. What was given you, Edward?"

"It doesn't matter what kind of boy I was or how I grew up. I grew up with everything. My biggest hardship was… minuscule by comparison."

"Maybe. But there are different kinds of childhood trauma."

"Not really."

"Trauma is trauma? That is all there is to it? I don't think so."

"I mean, you and I, in our comfortable little lives, have no idea what hardship really is."

"Edward. You don't know how I grew up. You make assumptions based on the me you know now, but anything could have happened to me as a child. And just because I got fed every day doesn't mean it wasn't difficult. You too. Just because you slept in a bed every night doesn't mean you weren't alone or scared. Or betrayed."

Quiet. I recall the night I spent in the closet. I didn't sleep in a bed that night. Umar spent many nights hiding. Trying to avoid discovery.

"Do you think Umar thought he would survive? Whoever put the gun in his hands turned him into a disposable weapon. He knew it, don't you think? He knew he was going to his death."

Yes. He did. "Bella, please."

"Did he recognize you? Did he aim for you?" This question again. I can't… I don't think I can speak now, not without the dam breaking. The truth is I don't know if Umar aimed for me. The gun he wielded was too powerful in his small hands and it sprayed bullets in uncontrolled bursts. I thought I could get to him and disarm him before he hit anything. I was wrong.

"He must have known me. I called to him. He turned to me..."

"And... shot you?"

My neck is tight, bound to my spine, and I swallow around the knot there.

"You think he shot you on purpose... because you didn't save him? Maybe because you were a friend to him... for so long, when he was scared. Because...?"

"Because I was supposed to be a hero. Military. I was supposed to keep him safe." It hurts to speak around the ache in my throat. My voice is scarce and barely recognizable as mine.

Her hand moves against my face, her thumb running along the days growth of beard on my jaw. It's a healing touch, she is pressing more than her palm to me. She is making some kind of promise.

"You think you failed him? You think he thought that? You think he blamed you?"

I can't speak.

She goes on. "Like you blame your own father. For the positions he put you in. Maybe, with your sister?"

"Bella. Please. I can't talk about this any more."

"You loved him, didn't you?"

I don't say anything. She gleans from my silence all she needs to know.

"In some ways he was like you…"

I'm going to throw up. Or cry. Or both. "Yes. He had green eyes. He… pointed to mine often. 'Shin,' he said. Green in Pashto. Maybe. Maybe that's why…"

"Maybe that's why he trusted you that first night?"

I clear my throat just as her lips press gently against mine. I can feel my lashes are wet and I hope the same moon that etches her in silver casts me in shadow.

"You don't blame him, and you shouldn't blame yourself. I know you won't believe that."

"I was a man. He was… just a boy."

"A boy with a gun, trying to solve someone else's dispute. Not his and not yours."

"I chose to be there. I chose it."

"So you did. And now you think you should pay for that choice forever?"

I don't know how not to.

"Do you blame Riley or the others… for killing him?"

"I… don't… no, I don't think so."

"You only blame yourself, then. That sounds fair. Why does the circumstance protect everyone around you from responsibility, but not YOU, Edward?"

"It just… Bella, it just _IS_ this way…" She starts a little in my arms.

"Who do you think Riley blames?"

Himself. We all blame ourselves. Or God.

She knows what I'm thinking.

"Why did you enlist, really?"

I don't fully know the answer to this question.

I spent my life being bullied. Being bullied and harassed while other people looked away, pretended not to see. I remember, I think I was about fourteen. I looked twelve. I felt twelve. Except that I had started to notice girls. Girls - a whole world of impossibility. Amazing impossibility.

What had been fairly unimpressive to me in years past became, almost overnight, intriguing.

Heidi, whose attentions meant nothing to me when I was prepubescent, evaporated when I started to actually want them. Evaporated under the intense heat of my fragility, as boys who became men early targeted me as easy fodder. There had been defeat and self doubt. Then there was humiliation and self recrimination. Pity in her face and feigned distraction. She didn't want to see. She didn't want to _do_ anything. No one did.

Somewhere along the line, hope was born in me; the ardent hope that I would never ever stand by and watch. Not if I could do something. Not if I could do _something._

My lifetime of discontent, of not being big enough or strong enough, focused into a moment where I could see and act, or I could feign distraction. I'd had enough.

No one questions you when you're a Marine. Not your masculinity or your purpose. I was just done being a fucking weakling.

I thought I would find myself at Juilliard. I thought my future would open its arms to me, full of promise and possibility. What I think I understand now is that the only promise my future held was that which I gave to it. And I had nothing to give. Even then. My passion for music and discovery had been stretched thin. I was coming up blank all the time. I was angry, still. I was different from others. Not into dramatics and culture. Not with the passion the other students had. I lived music. I lived it in my own way. I had very few friends... and I had very little possibility in me. And no inspiration driving me.

"I was… young. I was twenty-three and… I told you about my upbringing. In some ways it was unconventional. In other ways it was based on some basic values that I thought I understood. God. Family. Country. Family… well, I never really had that. And God was pretty much lost to me. Not just lost, but banished, really. I've never been especially patriotic, but… I remember sitting across from the recruitment officer and the mantra just played over and over like a broken record. God, family, country."

"You enlisted after 9/11?"

"Yes." Although, really, it was just a catalyst for some other kind of breakdown. I was, even then, just sick of myself. I enlisted out of desperation. Just desperate to be something different. And a sort of resolve. I felt like I was on a path leading no where. So if it led into my own destruction, what did it really matter? If I could do something, what did my destruction matter?

"Was it very hard… the military, was it…?"

I interrupt her. "Yes."

"Did you get anything positive out of it? At all?"

I think about it. I know my limits now. I know my capabilities. I know how to kill a person, or how to protect them. I know how to battle fatigue and fear. I know how to play music with no instruments. How to make dozens of children smile. Or cry. I know what it's like to take my anger and my rage and treble them. I know how to tolerate. I know how to abide. How to die. I know what to expect from myself when shit hits the fan. Not just in a hypothetical or inconsequential way. In an actual way.

I know how to love.

"Yes. Many things, actually."

"Like?"

"I'm really good with an iron."

Her face squishes up in confusion. "Like – laundry?"

"Press a crease so sharp it would cut you."

She laughs. Softly, exquisitely. "You do your own laundry?"

"Hell no."

She places her lips to mine again. Little kisses that keep me here.

She breathes me in and says, "You still smell of bourbon."

"That… probably… will never change, Bella."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean… to some extent, I'm capable of a great many things. I don't know if abstinence is one of them."

"I don't need you to know." Her voice is gentle and her hand comes again to my face, her thumb running over my cheekbone. "And I'm not asking you to change. Or do anything. Anything you don't want to do."

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I wake in the same position I lost myself to sleep in. Somehow, I feel like I've slept for days, being nourished in this white cotton cocoon of regeneration. I feel heavy and comfortable, not stiff, just pulled into the sublime gravity of this bed with Bella breathing against me. Her face burrowed against my chest, her arms sandwiched between us.

I slide backwards so that I can look down at her.

I like watching her sleep.

The room is cool, but the bed is warm. I can hear the steady drumming of rain falling on the roof, running in heavy rivulets down the gutter and puddling against the ground outside the bedroom window. Cold, brittle rain being spit down from slate skies. Dark, ominous skies so close to spewing snow.

So close to a white Christmas.

Bella's lashes don't even flutter; suddenly, her brown eyes are just looking at me.

"Merry Christmas, Edward."

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I think my arm is asleep."

She wiggles off of me and I stretch my arm out. It feels light and easy to move. I roll out of bed and into her bathroom. This one isn't neat. Bella's stuff is all over. Clothes hang off hooks behind the door, towels are hung haphazardly over the small fiberglass shower, which I peek inside of while lifting the lid on her toilet. Loofahs and body wash and opaque bottles of shampoo and conditioner that look homemade are scattered about. A knockoff iHome sits askew on the counter next to her toothpaste, and over the toilet is a big Maxfield Parrish print where girls lounge next to a still pool in the late afternoon sunlight. I get to stare at it longer than I would have otherwise, and the atmosphere of the scene is perfectly executed. I close the lid with a bang and flush before swishing my mouth out with some cinnamon flavored organic shit she has. It's fucking awful. But it's better than the mossy feeling it dispatched.

When I let myself out, her bed is empty. I find my clothes on the floor and pull them on as the scent of coffee floats into the room. I head towards it. From down the hall I can hear her speaking quietly, the sound of her voiced mixed with the burble of water being transformed into coffee. I can't see her until I get to the end of the hallway and look into her living room. She's cross-legged under her small tree, her dark hair unbound and long, torn wrapping paper around her. Jake licks her face as she fiddles with the clasp on a new collar with a shiny tag. Her slender fingers are scratching around his face and ears, and she's saying quiet sweet little things to him as she pulls paper off another present. This one is a squeaky toy and she makes a soft, "Ooooh," before setting it down in front of him and pulling out another gift.

My life is fucked, I know that. Apparently, hers is too.

Because this is fucking bull-shit. Where is her husband? Where are her kids? Why is she spending Christmas morning unwrapping presents for a dog, pretending like she isn't the one who bought them? Why the fuck is Bella, someone with this much love and understanding in her, making coffee for me of all people? Of ALL fucking people.

I just watch her as Jake wanders over to a brand new light blue dog bed and plops onto it with a big knuckle that he licks diligently while Bella tries to slip his rabies tag off his old collar.

I clear my throat and she turns to me, her eyes bright and happy. "Hey."

"Hey."

"There's coffee."

"Cool."

She smiles at me, it's sort of lopsided. I think this is my favorite of all her smiles. Her nose crinkles when she smiles like this. I head into her kitchen. It's a disaster from last night. Frosting has gone stiff in the bowl and the bottle of Blanton's is uncorked and half empty, pushed to the side from when I lifted Bella onto the counter and kissed her.

A fucking kiss. That's all it was.

But it wasn't. And she knew it, too.

I open the cabinet and find two coffee mugs. Her coffee maker is just finishing as I fill them, helping myself to the half & half in the fridge.

I'm just grabbing the mugs to move into the living room when I hear her breath catch. I look around and see her holding something on a chain in front of her face. It's a teardrop shaped crystal, a prism, it swings off her hand as she opens a blueish card and starts reading. She closes it and looks up at me as I hand her a cup of coffee.

"This used to hang in the Z."

"The Z?"

"Yeah. The Datsun that my mom gave me. Phil found it in a box when he and his wife moved to San Anselmo. He thought I might want it. He was right." Her smile is huge, full bloom. And _this_ one is my favorite.

She sets it carefully back in the small box it must have been sent in and sips her coffee. "I wish I had your present, so you had something to open."

I lean back into her couch. "I like looking forward to it."

"Did you dream last night?"

I shake my head. "Not that I remember."

"Neither did I. I was out like a light. What are you… doing today?"

She looks like she isn't sure she really wants me to answer this question, her eyes resting on her coffee cup as she turns it around in her hands. I wish, for the millionth time, that I could read her mind. That I could understand the hesitancy I see there.

I wonder if she wishes she could read mine.

Both of us, cryptic people. But I'm done with that. Although, why last night - what I meant to say to her, and what I actually said to her - fuck. I didn't expect that.

But somehow it's okay. It's more than okay. It's important that she knows. These are things about me she needs to understand so that she can make an informed decision about… well… me.

There are things about people that you accept when you invite them into your life.

I make it clear, at least I think I do, that what I'm after is a fuck. There should be no misunderstandings about what I want and what I'm there for.

And in this case - this… fucking unknown with Bella - I need to make it clear that what I'm after is more than a fuck.

What I'm after is something more than I deserve. But I don't care.

She needs to know who I am and what I'm made of. She needs to know everything. When she implored me to show her my nature, she was asking me for my decency. Asking me to open the doors that I keep locked.

Because she needs to know what I keep beyond the locks.

I feel like I walk the white line of a field sobriety test and there is no pass-fail. One side of me is who I think I can be, and the other side is who I don't want to be. The white line is where those two blur into who I am right now. Another line to cross. If I want her, she needs to know.

It's my responsibility to make sure her eyes are wide open.

Edward Cullen. Alcoholic.

These things don't get to become bargaining chips or ultimatums down the road.

Edward Cullen. Agent. Fuck that.

When I make it clear that these are the terms I operate under, this is the way that I am, and someone accepts that, they don't get to reneg later.

Edward Cullen. Marine.

Because I can never not be a Marine. The Corps changes you. The Corps finds your violence, your loyalty, your soul, and it wraps it like stretched sinew around a metal core of discipline and obedience.

D-I-S-C-I-P-L-I-N-E

It's ingrained in you.

Ingrained in me.

Edward Cullen.

Because everything I am, man, Marine, alcoholic, can be found there. In my name. In my nature. Why did I enlist? Why did Fiona always put weapons into my hands? Because violence is inherent in me. Even if it's soft, unused violence, my solution to problems is always to bend someone else to MY will.

Fuck with me and get my fist.

It's my first reaction. My first instinct is to solve the fucking problem. Shut it down, terminate.

More than that. In a slightly less civilized world, the world that evolved me, that made me, that created me, it would be my job. Protect. Defend. Fight.

Tap that reservoir of rage and use it to drive your justice home.

When New York crumbled around me, that is exactly what happened. Years and years and years of swallowing back my rage. Exploded.

It wasn't just the towers. It was me. Playwrights and dancers and poets cried around me.

I raged.

I gave my rage to my country.

I gave my will to them, too. I gave away my justice and my peace and my ambitions.

And they took it. They took it and never gave it back.

"Actually. I'm going out of town for a couple of days."

She looks surprised. "Can I ask where?"

"You can always ask, Bella. I may not answer, but you can always ask."

She gives me a smug little look and a raised eyebrow. Her expression tells me she is asking and I am avoiding.

"I'm going to go down to Mission Beach to visit a friend."

"Down in Cali?"

I nod.

Sometimes I don't need to wish I could read her mind. Sometimes what she wants to ask me is all over her face.

"It's not a girl, just in case you were wondering. You look like you were."

Her lips roll in and she squeezes them together before relaxing into a smile. "I was."

I lean forward, elbows on knees, my hands still gripping my coffee cup, and I level my gaze at her. Straight and direct so that she understands exactly what I'm saying.

"I'm done fucking other women, Bella."

Jake's teeth scraping against the bone in between his paws is the only sound in the room. Her mouth opens and then closes. Then it opens again.

I can't help it. I smile.

"I tell you this and you can believe it, or not. I'm done. I've been done for awhile. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense when I say I've been done since before Virago and before Irina. Fuck. You with that fucking wig. I was going to fuck you in my car. I was going to turn you around and tell you not to talk. Because I wanted it to be you. So, this is me. No more pussyfooting around."

I love watching her cheeks blaze while her eyes never leave my face.

"You need off the see-saw. I do too. I'm off. No promises and no expectations. Fuck that. I'm saying it… out loud. I'm trying to stop jerking you around. Because - this thing - feels like something to me. Something that I want."

"Fuck," is her unladylike response. And she is looking at her hands.

"Look, Bella. I know I'm not… the best prospect for you-"

Her laugh is angry and short.

"I'm just saying… I can do better. Be better. Than I've been."

"You're right about one thing, you can do better. Way better."

Her eyes are glassy and I shake my head at her. Fucking women. "You know that's not what I meant. Don't twist my words around."

"I'm not. I know what you meant."

We look at each other. I feel my resolution reflected back at me. She matches it with her dark eyes and the solemn set of her jaw. A small symphony of panic rings to life in my blood. I don't want to have to convince her. I need to just show her. I need to remember that she has good reason to be wary of me. I just need a chance to show her.

We both speak at the same time.

"Fucking-A Bella. I'm not going to-"

"Edward, I… Fuck. This isn't-"

Somewhere, distantly, I hear "Carol O' The Bells" ringing out and Bella gets to her feet, reaching to grab her phone from beside the TV.

"Just let the fucking thing go to voicemail."

But she's already accepted the call and I can hear someone, maybe the smaller girl with the dimples, yelling into the phone. "WHERE ARE YOU? OHHHmygod. PRESENTS, Bella. Get your ass over here!"

Bella's eyes don't leave my face, but her expression is severe. "I'm just finishing up here. Be there soon, kay?"

"Warp speed B. We are DYING over here."

She cracks a small smile and hangs up the phone before stooping to grab her coffee cup off the floor and sitting down in front of me.

"Edward. I have something very important to tell you. But I don't want to do it now, when I have to go. It's something… I've tried to tell you several times and… I feel like it's deal-breaker kinda stuff. For you, maybe-"

I roll my eyes. "Do you have a dick, Bella?"

"Um, no."

"Then we're cool, okay?"

She laughs. It breaks all the tension between us. I set my cup down and pull her up into me, onto my lap, like I'm fucking Santa and it's time for her to tell me what she wants for Christmas. I think she is thinking the same thing, because she leans into my ear and confides that she wants a pony. Actually, a unicorn.

Then her face falls.

"Unicorns aren't magical. They're just… horses with a deformity. Or Narwhals. Maybe."

"Bella. With all due respect, I don't give a fuck about unicorns. Or nar-whatevers."

"Anyhow. I have to get ready to go."

"I know."

"And you… are going to Mission Beach. When will you be back?"

"I don't know. Probably late in the week. I'm going to drive down and back. That's like a 20 hour drive."

"Call me, when you get back?"

I nod. It occurs to me that next weekend is New Year's and fuck it. "What are you doing next weekend?"

"New Year's?"

"Yeah."

"Nothing, I don't think. You?"

"Yeah. Another Cullen party. This one is usually pretty good, actually." Reflecting though, I realize not without fatigue, that the reasons these parties have been good for me in the past, is usually because I get trashed, get away from my family early, get blown. Get fucked. Maybe this year will be more of the same. With Bella. And maybe next year, too. If I'm very lucky.

Her answer is long in coming. "Get back first. Talk first. Then ask me again."

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

So, Bella has something she needs to tell me. Deal-breaker stuff. My mind can't help rolling over what the fuck it could be as I zip home on empty highways. I try on all kinds of possibilities, including the idea that she was assaulted or has some kind of sex-phobia. Or herpes. Or worse. For some reason though, none of these speculations fit.

I am so lost in thought that Gina at the front desk has to call my name several times before it cracks my fog. She strides up to me with a smirk, wishes me a Merry Christmas, and puts a gift in my hand.

"Some girl left it for you yesterday."

"Thanks."

"No problem." I watch her sashay away, her dark hair, skin, and eyes very attractive. She's new to the position, a month at the most, and since day one she has been sending me a vibe. It's subtle but there. Like she just needs the all clear from me and it's on. I've thought about it. A handful of times. And honestly, if she worked evenings I probably would have, but she doesn't.

And now I won't. Ever.

Not remotely interested.

Funny. The change. I can see that she's beautiful. I can fucking smell that she wants me.

And nothing. I am completely immune.

Maybe not completely. Not immune.

Just. I have a reason not to pursue it. Something I want. Something worth my chastity and my promise.

I step into the elevator and get shot up thirty floors in no time.

My condo is cold and dark. The opposite of what I've come from. I toss my coat onto the back of the sofa and head to the bathroom. I feel like I've been at half-mast for fucking ever, or full-mast and a dull ache is reminding me that prolonged disuse is counter productive to my sexual health. I strip and step into a hot shower. Very hot.

I don't even contemplate whether or not I'm going to jack off.

It's quick and intense and I have to brace myself against the wall as imagery, like flipping the pages of a magazine, flashes through my mind. And the way Bella's breath caught in her throat and then hummed out of her in waves when she came. That always fucking does it. If I wanted to go another minute or four, too bad. The memory of it is full sensory overload, and I can't fucking wait to hear it again.

I wash and linger. Feeling better, relaxed, and actually good.

I get out, consider shaving and decide not to. Instead, I head into the huge closet for clean clothes and I dress. I brush my teeth and then pull out a duffel bag and throw some shit into it. A glint of silver and blue catches my eye and I remember my present from Bella.

I open the card first.

It's short and reserved, written in Bella's big chaotic script. Barely legible.

_Edward. I made this a long time ago. It doesn't work for me, but maybe it will for you. It's kind of a lame present, but, no offense, this whole thing between us has been pretty lame, so. I don't know - take that however you want. I wish you the best, and I want you to know that I will always remember you with… let's say, intensity. Merry Christmas, Bella Swan._

I wonder when she wrote this. I remember seeing the package wrapped under her tree that night after I took her to V-M ER.

I open the folded paper and find a dream-catcher. Bright blue and green with peacock feathers and wooden beads. I turn it over in my hands. Carved in one of the brown beads I find her initials and the year.

I.M.S  
>2001<p>

How weird, to think that while I was studying, composing, maybe riding the subway or cutting through Central Park - or even enlisting, taking my first steps off the bus in the middle of the night down in South Carolina - that Bella existed somewhere. Existed somewhere apart from me. Apart and having nightmares. I do some quick math. She's six years my junior so she would have been about sixteen. Maybe seventeen.

Around the time her mom died, if I remember correctly. I guess 2001 wasn't a fucked year for me alone. Or America. We all suffered. Together. Separate but together.

I set the dream-catcher on my pillow and grab my bag.

It's been years, millions of minutes and miles. I need to talk to Riley Biers.

* * *

><p>***BPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>My arms are full of boxes and gift bags, Jake pulling at his leash, as I kick gently at the front door of Dad's house, trying to get someone on the inside to hear me and open the door for me so I don't have to set any of this shit down.<p>

The door swings blessedly inward and Jasper is unburdening me with a determined look on his face. Presents get piled on the Lazyboy nearest the door as he calls out, "She's here, Leah."

"Hi to you, too. And Merry Christmas."

He stops and pulls me into one of his big hugs. "Hey Bells. Missed you last night."

"Yeah, what's up with that?"

He lets me go and grins at me. "Take your coat off."

"Okayyyy." He helps me out of my coat and tosses it over a hook behind the door. Then his hands are all over me. All over my clavicle actually, as he starts opening the buttons at my collar. "Hey, Jazz. No offense, but I'm only interested in you as a friend. You know that right?"

He laughs right as Leah appears, and over Jasper's shoulder, I give her a look that says _what the fuck is going on__?_

I look up at Jasper's face as he focuses on my buttons. His eyes are big and merry. Big, happy Jasper eyes. It makes me smile. "I mean, you know… that whole pizza thing. We don't eat each other's pizza, remember?" Jasper just smirks at me as he pulls the blouse I'm wearing to the side, exposing my shoulder and I hear Leah snort.

"I told you. I can't believe you even questioned me. I tattooed it on her, for pete's sake. Pay up."

Jasper looks a little bewildered as he reaches into his back jean pocket for his wallet. "Could have sworn…"

Sam comes around the corner munching a carrot stick and she leans around Jasper, looks at me, before turning to Leah and high-fiving her with a laugh. "Good thing we listened to you, otherwise we would've fucked it up."

Leah has a smug expression as Jasper hands her ten bucks.

"Alright guys. Now that I am 100 percent confused…"

I pull my blouse back up and button it as Sam points her carrot stick at me. "Jasper was adamant, ADAMANT, that your honey-bee tattoo was on the left side. He and Lee argued about it for like an hour last night."

The smile dies right on my face. I feel it stuck there, stiff and unnatural. How funny that mirth can vanish so abruptly, leaving behind this grimace. Why are my friends all hanging out on Christmas Eve without me? I don't know how to handle this situation and be cool. Because it makes me feel like shit. And I just… don't get it. I kneel down to Jake, snapping his leash off his collar, and tell myself that I'm glad they ditched me last night… because…

Edward.

But that doesn't make me feel better. They are what I thought I understood. I feel safe with them, and somehow, their rejection hurts worse than anything Edward could do to me.

I clear my throat and hang the leash up next to my coat, willing myself some levity. I may be hurt, but I'm not going to ruin Christmas with it. I'm not going to –

Oh my god.

It takes me a minute to process what I'm seeing.

In between Jasper and Leah, with Sam smiling her big, infectious grin over the top – she must be standing on a chair- , is a huge ornate gold frame. In it is Boticelli's _Birth of Venus_. And she is absolutely covered in tattoos. My tattoos. Carefully penned to her skin in a fine hand. Leah's, no doubt.

"Merry Christmas, B," Leah says.

The lump in my throat that I willed to unwind a mere moment ago has exploded. In relief. In love. In tears. I hate crying in front of people, but I don't care this time. I'm on my knees before the print, my jeans tight and a little unyielding.

It's just her in the shell, her hair has been painstakingly darkened to match mine. Her eyes, too. Gold to brown with a ring of red against the pupil - so, so like mine.

"Do you love it?" I look up at Sam, who is peeking down at me from her lofty position. "She loves it."

All I can do is nod.

"See, she's speechless."

"I am," I choke out.

Leah comes down to the floor and pulls me into her. I bury my face in her warm neck and she just holds me while I cry. Again, I'm not crying exclusively for their gift to me, or what it means to me, but for all kinds of things. For these people who love me and aren't fading from my life. For all the people in my support group and their struggles. For Edward and Umar and Riley. For war in general and suffering. And as usual, for my mother.

She rubs my back and I feel Jasper and Sam huddle down around me. Suddenly, I'm the cream filling of a Hostess group hug and everyone is chattering quietly around me.

"Are you okay, Bella?"

"… so sorry…"

"…had to finish it…"

"… delayed shipping…"

"… hair was a pain in the ass…"

And I realize, they spent last night working on this, the three of them. For me. Leah feels my realization, it must be in the way my shoulders relax under her embrace. She whispers in my ear, "Worth it, though? Right?"

I nod, trying to get myself back together.

I don't think I fully grasped how much it hurt that they excluded me. I had tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that my friends were drifting away from me, like Christmas Eve alone would be my new normal, like there would be other changes between us. But there won't be. The relief, the wave of it, huge and refreshing inside me, also contained the force to knock me over.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**…**

It's late when I pull into my driveway, Leah and Sam on my tail. Sam hops out of the passenger side of Leah's car and stumbles a little, giggling like a girl and sweeping her red and green bangs back behind one ear. She opens the back door and Jake jumps out, his tail curling around as he trots next to her.

I unhitch the tailgate and Leah helps me slide the Venus out and together we carry it carefully inside.

"Do you want to hang it now?"

"Of course. Where do you think it should go? I was thinking there." I point to the wall facing the front door. Right now it has a promotional poster for Live 105's BFD concert at Shoreline Amphitheatre.

Leah nods and I get the step-stool from the garage. When I come back into the kitchen Leah and Sam are playing gingerbread house destruction, not unlike Edward and I did last night. Sam sits where I did, and she's trying to pull off a shot. I wonder if Leah knows she's defending Edward's creation.

The door closes softly behind me and when Leah settles her old-soul gaze on me, I know that – yeah, she knows.

I can't help contrasting Leah with Edward. Leah, tall and lovely. Serious, intense. A wild stallion of a woman with incredible talent, tamed only by Sam. Short, smiley fearless Samantha.

Sam, who just managed to get a streak of powdered sugar up the side of her nose…

Can I tame Edward? Could I be the Sam to his Leah?

And even if I could. Even if.

Even if I tell him and it really doesn't matter. What happens down the road? What happens when he's slaked whatever thirst he has for me and his roaming nature rekindles? What happens then?

What happens when he turns his head to look at any beautiful woman we happen to pass on the street? When they pull him from me and offer themselves to him, in restaurants or parties. Because they will. That won't ever stop. Not until they're done with him, as he so eloquently put it.

How will I deal with that? How will he?

Can a man, so used to having whatever he wants, picking the most delectable items from a never ending buffet of women, really be happy with me for any extended period of time? Faithful?

So many ifs. Most of them are probably irrelevant.

I take the stool over to the wall where I want to hang my Boticelli and pull the poster off the wall. Leah materializes behind me and together we secure the ornately framed Venus and step back. I feel tears prick at my eyes again.

Sam comes out from the kitchen with the bottle of Blanton's and some glasses. She's already on the verge of sloppiness and Leah takes the bottle from her. "I think you're done, don't you?"

"Probbbly right, Lee-Lee. Probbbbbly. But y'know. It's Christmas and we no don't be working tomorrow."

"What?" Leah's tone is stern but she's smiling.

"We no don't be working, Leah," I tell her. "Didn't you know?"

"Guysssss seriously."

"I think she may be drooling."

"Yeah, I really doubt she will even be conscious by the time we get home. Hey Sammie, I thought we were going to make up for the not-getting-any that went down last night. No passing out."

"You kid me, Lee. I can make it."

She sits down on the couch with a heavy squelching of the leather and looks up at me. Her sunlight eyes are happy, just like the rest of her face.

"So. B." She pauses and smiles before going on. "Beeeeeee. Who came over last night?"

I feel my cheeks flush and I glance up at Leah who has the tip of her straight nose right at the lip of the bottle. She answers for me. "Edward, Sammie. Remember him?"

"Pshssss. Of course I do. Mr. Cocks-A-Lot… oh sorry, Bellsie."

"Sam. You are wasted."

"YUUUUUP." Oh no.

Leah catches my eye and I see only humor in her face. I breathe a quick sigh of relief. Maybe I won't get a lecture. It IS Christmas, after all.

"So. Bellsie. I want deets. Because… because I bet that man is packing. Know what I mean?"

"Sam. Cool your jets. You don't give a shit about what that man is packing."

"Right-O, Lee-O-Mine. But Bellsie does. And I want all the squishy, kersplunkitty details." Sam leans forward - not unlike the way Edward did this morning when he told me he was done fucking other women - and talks to me like she is stone-cold sober. "And I want to hear that you're being fucking careful. Kapeesh?"

Great. The lecture is coming from Sam this time.

I don't mean to roll my eyes. But I do. A little. And then she lights into me. In her drunken, hysterical way. "I saw that, Bellsie. I just want to say. I like the guy, personally. I mean… I don't to be knowing him very well." Leah and I look at each other again as Sam goes on. We can barely contain our laughter. She is trying to be serious, and that just makes it funnier. "But that is _what_, no _with_, no… _what_… the condoms were for. Right? Because… he could have… you know… the clap?"

Leah bursts out laughing. I follow. "The clap, Sam?"

"Yeah. I heard about it on a movie once. The clap. I don't know what it is… but I think it fucks your shit up. Yeah?"

"Gonorrhea, right?" I ask Leah.

She nods. "I think so. Or maybe Chlamydia."

"Bad news," is what Sam says.

Leah has her eyes locked on me when she says, her voice hushed, "Maybe. But maybe not. Did he stay the night?"

I nod.

"Does he know?"

I shake my head. Leah reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "I know you know everything I could say to you right now. Just. Be careful. Really, okay? Promise me?"

"Leah – I know what you're thinking and you're right. I know it sounds stupid when I say that I just haven't had the right opportunity…"

"Bella. There will never be a right moment to tell him. Stop waiting for it. Tell him and then you can move forward. Until you do, you're just… well, you're lying to him. And he may be a jerk. Grade-A – I don't know. But I do know that he built gingerbread houses with you last night, and he hasn't groped you against your will. And he brought you a bottle of expensive bourbon. AND – he brought you cherries. Stop lying to the man."

"Wow, Leah. When you switch teams, you really do."

She snorts. "Good one. I'm on your team Bella. You know that. And that's why I have to speak up. I want to see you get out of this holding pattern. Embry… was right, earlier."

I give her a questioning look.

"About the line outside the bathroom."

Much to my surprise it wasn't Sam who found me, leaned casually against the wall, standing under the mistletoe watching some of the folks from the Co-op play Spoons at a tottery card-table. It was Embry.

All teenage swagger, he pretended to brush by me, headed towards the bathroom when he whipped around and put his lips against my cheek. Then he made big eyebrow gestures at me as his eyes pointed towards the mistletoe, as he warned me that I shouldn't hang out here or a line will form and block the bathroom.

"Hardy-har, Em," I had said, drily.

He shook his head at me and sauntered off.

Leah goes on. "Embry asked me the other day if you had a thing going with the suit from the hospice party. I guess his cousin Paul from Lahote Salvage has been trying to work up the nerve to call you."

Really? I think my face shows my surprise. Paul is always really nice when I show up there, a couple times a year at best, and I just never got the idea, not once, that he was interested in me.

"You don't see it, Bella. Sometimes you are so oblivious, locked into your own little world. All you see is your own damage. Time to get better, okay? No more lecture. Okay? Just… think about it."

"I do think about it, Leah. Too much, probably."

We hug and she keeps talking. "The thing about the Venus, B, I mean look at her. She's Venus. She is the icon of love and beauty. Perfection even. And still, look at how weird her feet are."

And then we're laughing.

"And she kinda has a fat ass."

"I didn't want to be the one to say it."

"Well, I will. I mean, she ain't no Barbie doll. Thank fucking god."

"But… she IS… incredibly beautiful. Whose idea was it?"

"Jasper's actually. He ordered it, along with the matting and the frame. It didn't ship until just a few days ago. We were so worried it wouldn't come in time. But… it did." She smiles. "Jasper worked on the mat, while Sam did the hair and eyes in Pentels. I, obviously, did the tattoos."

"I think it's probably the most amazing thing anyone has ever done for me." My words make me think of Edward and the stereo in my car. I don't want to exclude him and his gift, so I tell Leah about it. Her expression shows me that while she doesn't want to like him, she might be softening a smidge. "This year, was there ever such a Christmas?"

"Was there ever such a Christmas?" she repeats with a smile. We both look down at Sam. She is curled into herself, asleep on the couch. "Awww. Look at her."

"All intoxicated and drooling on my couch. Howww cuuuute."

"It's going to be hard to get her out to the car."

"You can leave her here. You can both stay, if you want."

"We need to get home actually. Gotta feed Schrödinger. He's probably shredded all the furniture by now."

I help Leah get Sam to her feet, her Dickies sagging, her Santa Clause boxers peeking out the back. We buckle her into the CR-V and she mumbles something about fire-bad. Leah and I are trying to keep it down because it's late, just after midnight, and most of my neighbors houses are still in the frosty silence. We stifle giggles as Leah settles herself in and starts the engine.

"Love you."

"Love _you_."

I wave as she pulls out, then I duck back into my warm house. Which also happens to be a disaster. Wrapping paper from this morning is still all over the living room floor. Gingerbread devastation decorates my dining room table, and the floor beneath it.

I am _so_ not going to think about that now. I pour myself the smallest splash of Blanton's and sit on my couch, staring up at my Venus. Nobody's but mine. A unique, graffitied Goddess emerging from a shell. I know, off the scene, mortals await her arrival. Ready to clothe her, ready to wrap her sacred body in the finest materials. Sacred, scared, scarred. Just the difference of a few letters. Move them around. Add and subtract. It's all the same.

I sip my drink and wonder why she covers her right breast. Maybe Venus, the Goddess of Love, was also a warrior, an Amazon. Maybe even the goddess of love doesn't give a fuck about symmetry. Maybe love isn't about beauty. It's about protection and nurture and comfort and it has nothing to do with how weird looking your feet are.

I smile. This is the perfect gift. I can see it every day and I can remember that even the Goddess of Love was imperfect, even she hid.

Her face is so peaceful, holding nothing but serenity. No judgment, no modesty.

She just IS this way.

My mind wanders to Edward. Again. My night with him has never been far from my mind. All day the memory of it was with me, my mind stumbling over words passed between us, replaying them, turning them over and around, looking for the meanings. Looking for his intent and his purpose.

Trying, over and over again, to fit his skin around me and wear it. Like Atticus Finch says in _To Kill a Mockingbird_, about how you can never really understand a person until you wear their skin and walk around in it. I just want to understand him. I want to understand what he needs from me, what he wants from me. What we are to each other and who he was before parts of him were murdered in Afghanistan. He was right. There is so much I cannot understand. Not ever. I can try. But only if he tells me.

He doesn't want to talk about it. It was obvious the way each word came from him, like it required a severe wrenching to pry it free.

But he DID talk... and now I need to. He found the courage, found the words. I can, too.

After my initial meltdown this morning, Christmas took its old form again. Nutmeg clung to the inside of my nose and mouth. The eggnog, homemade and absolutely the best ever, coated my insides just like a Pepto-Bismol commercial. Gifts were exchanged, the lot of us piled together on the floor. Jasper pulled me into his lap and I pulled Sam into my lap and then Jake came over and licked all three of us.

My eyes misted over when Sam and Leah put their pendants on. It was so intimate; I almost forgot that it was my gift to them and not theirs, to each other.

Around seven the cruiser pulled up outside and my dad ambled in, hanging his hat and his gun near the door. He found Sue in the kitchen and kissed her cheek, seemingly perfunctory but when you know him you can see the sparks in his rich brown eyes. When you know him, you can see and feel his love in his quiet reserved affection.

I was next. After he grabbed a plate of food he found me setting up the game board and he took his seat across from me silently. I hadn't won anything since this morning, not since Sam, Embry, and Seth abandoned Mario Party in frustration and switched to a racing game. Sam had yelled a raucous, "Oh Hayyyle, NO!" when I warped directly to Toad in Mario Party and earned my fifth star of the game. Embry tossed his controller aside in a fit and put me in a headlock. Since then I'd been getting my ass handed to me in everything.

Jasper won Shanghai Rummy and Bullshit. Leah always wins Scattegories, mainly because she cheats. And by cheating, I mean, her brain always thinks of multiple things that start with the given letter. I will rack my brain for a cartoon beginning with R, and then hours later, in the shower or driving home from work, then… THEN it will come to me and I will smack my forehead and go Road-Runner, duh. For two points. She always gets doubles, sometimes triples.

Sam won Play Nine and Loaded Questions and Tetris. Pretty much everything. She's was drinking with abandon and not taking anything seriously and STILL winning. So when Dad and I started playing Acquire, not really saying anything to each other as lasagna and garlic bread disappeared bit by bit underneath his mustache, I was ready for my win. But we didn't finish the game.

We ended up outside in the cold night air so he could get away from the constant commotion inside the house. People singing along with Guitar Hero, screaming at the TV, laughing.

"I need a quiet minute, Bella. Care to join your old man outside?"

Of course I did.

We sat together on the patio swing, me leaning into him for warmth, the press of his badge against my cheek.

"Christmas always makes me think of Queenie. Even after all these years."

We usually have a moment like this every year, ducking away from the festivities and remembering my mother. Her eccentricities and her spirit and her life.

"She's probably up there somewhere, Dad. Rocking around the Christmas tree with Jesus and arguing with him about whose birthday was more important, hers or his."

He chuckled. "Sounds like Red."

We swung quietly for a minute. "You're more like me, Bella. Even though she mostly raised you. You got a lot of your old man in you. You ain't flighty and you ain't a fool. And you got a work ethic like a Swan. I'm proud of you, girl."

I remember feeling my blood, hot under my collar, under my coat. I've been both flighty _and _a fool, and very recently.

"Don't ever get me wrong. I loved your mother. But I could never keep up with a woman like that. Now that you're older, maybe you understand me."

"I think so, Charlie."

"She had a kind of energy that just wears a person out. I think, maybe, it wore her out. I think maybe it just wore her plum out."

"You loved her though?"

"Oh, like nothing. Like everyone did. But I was… well she was older than me. She thought she knew what was best for her and for you. And she was probably right. But I always missed you both."

"Did you?"

"Course, Bells. Course I did."

"You never… told me."

"Not supposed to. Your mom couldn't get tied to me, wasn't her way. You know that. And it isn't my way to try to tie her down. And you, Bells. You were just a gift. And I was happy to get you when I did. So was she."

"Why didn't you ever get married?"

"I am getting married. Soon, in fact."

"I mean… when you were younger?"

"Why aren't you married, Bell?"

Somehow this question doesn't hurt, doesn't make me feel lost, not when I'm talking to my dad. "Haven't met someone I wanted to marry, I guess."

"Same here, then."

"When Harry was alive, did you ever – "

"No, I did not. Sue was his wife."

"That's not what I meant… I only meant, did it ever even occur to you, that your soul-mate or whatever, was married to your best friend?"

"No, it didn't. Mostly all that occurred to me about Sue Clearwater was that she made some incredible mashed potatoes. Not a lump."

I laughed.

"Things change though. People change. They don't realize it, but they do."

"Yeah."

In the dark, in the cold, I thought of Edward. My thoughts of him must have radiated out of me, because my dad asked, "Sam says you're seeing a man. That so? A Cullen?"

"Ugh, you say that like it's a dirty word."

"Yeah, well. I know that boy. Thrown him in the clink a few times to sober his ass up."

I couldn't believe my dad, even him... It was just weird how he could refer to Edward Cullen as _boy_. Edward Cullen is a man. As much as my dad is. "Drunk driving?"

"No, never caught him behind the wheel. But I wouldn't be surprised. More… public intox. And other… misbehaviors."

"I don't want to know."

"Wrong answer, girl."

"I… I'm just starting to understand him. I need to give him the chance to tell me about stuff like this. Not my cop-father. That isn't fair."

"Mmmm. He know?"

"Not yet."

"Better get on that. Someone's bound to tell him. Like I'm telling you that he has a drinking problem."

"I know he does."

"More addictions than one, I suspect."

"Maybe. Did you know he was a soldier? Served in Afghanistan?"

"Army?"

"Marines."

"He ain't a soldier then, Bella. He's a Marine. Don't call him army or soldier. They take offense to that."

"Why? What's the difference?"

"Marines… are different. Their culture is based on that distinction. And they operate on a different budget, smaller budget. They take pride in it. In getting more done with less."

"I don't think Edward is proud to be… or have been, a Marine. He doesn't talk about it."

"He thinks about it though. Probably, he can't stop. The Corps… changes you. Forever. Don't mess with this guy, Bella, unless you are ready to take it all on. Marines don't mess around."

"Well, this one does."

"Not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

His voice was weary when he said, "Seattle has some drug problems. Like any city, like anywhere. Small towns, big towns. All have drugs. All have criminals. I pick up lots of former military. Getting high, pills, meth. Self-medicating. LOTS of former military. Those that have seen active duty, they try to go back to their lives. But it's not the same. Not ever. I don't ever feel bad for a drugged up punk, till I learn he's Desert Storm. Or Vietnam. Or Kosovo. Always, I hear the same thing from their cells while they detox. War, they always tell me, leaves a bad taste in your mouth. And nothing takes it away. Damaged men, Bella. You know, it's funny. I'm sure women who serve come back damaged too, but I'm not picking them up and locking them up for their own good. Women, somehow, heal differently, maybe."

"Maybe."

"Fairer sex, also may be the stronger."

"Maybe, Charlie."

"You love this guy or what?"

"I don't know, Dad. Maybe."

"Sounds like yes to me. Come on. My feet are freezing and I smell pie."

So we went inside. Our game sat, barely started and didn't get finished. But that was okay. When my dad needs to talk, I listen.

We seldom ever talk about my cancer. I think it scares the shit out of him, to be honest. I remember hearing my mom on the phone with him, one of the most terrible things I ever overheard from my room. Her voice, a whisper raised in anger as she paced the floor. She was telling him that they found calcification in my breast and that the doctors were advising that I get both removed. She yell-whispered into the phone that she hoped he had grown up a little because "our daughter needs you, Charlie. You need to be ready to get Bella out of here. Not yet. Not yet. But probably soon."

She used the scariest word I know that night. Metastasized. The scariest fucking word in the English language. That and malignant. Fucking M-Words. Mastectomy.

The Venus blurs before me and I start my zen cycle. Good words start with M, too. Like… Monotony… no, that's a bad one. Misdemeanor. My brain is not working. Marriage… no.

Like Mizzensomething. Mise en scene… I don't remember what that means though. Something about theater. Damn.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Saved by the bell.

A text.

**You awake, Scheherazade? I need a story. ~E**

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.******

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

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><p><strong>AN: **

I apologize in advance for 2 things.

The length of this authors note.

The time it's taken me to update.

While I am going to _try_ to keep this short - I do have some important items to share. I hope you will stick with me here.

~1. I have immersed myself in war-study for several months now and I have to say - I'm glad it's over. This chapter is the regurgitation of that study, done as best as I can. I said it last chapter, and I need to say it again... I am not a Marine. I have never been outside my beloved USofA. I don't know a lot of things. I used certain resources to help write this and I will list them on my blog if anyone is interested. **There is also a glossary posted there for the foreign/military terms used in this chapter. ireenh. blogspot. com (Just take out the spaces and plop that link into your browser window.)**

~2. I am organizing a group of HiFi readers who would be interested in "adopting" some US military personnel serving overseas. As a group we can take turns sending care packages so that even those of us, like myself, who are stretched thin on time and money, can help support our troops in Afghanistan. If you're interested, please PM me your email address and I will add you to the list. Or you can join the FB group and hit me up there (link is on my blog). I will be collecting names for about another week as I get organized.

~3. The splendiferous ladies I write with and I are working to promote _Peace One Day. _Help us spread awareness of Peace Day, September 21st, an annual day of global ceasefire and non-violence. Get more information after the chapter.

I have to send huge THANKS out to **Songster51** for stepping in to substitute beta this BEAST. She is a class act, and I've leaned on her advice and encouragement, although she may not have known it, since my first story: Someone Like You. She, together with **Dragonfly336 **and **BelieveItOrNot**, helped me stop freaking out about this danged thing. Thanks guys!

And a HUGE thank you to the members of DTCPS who made my birthday In-Fuqqing-Credible with a sexy little O/S featuring some awesome music and lost love reclaimed. Read it here: dtcps. blogspot. com

ONE MORE THING. **(I know this is really long - I'm sorry.)**

Thanks for wishing me a happy birthday, and thanks for waiting so long for this chapter. See you soon with Ch. 20.

~IReenH

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

You can survive, and not survive, both at the same time.

~Megan Stack, Every Man in This Village is a Liar

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><p>***EPOV***<p>

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><p>The night is dark and Hwy 1 is empty. It's still Christmas after all – my eyes glance to the clock on the dash – for a few more minutes anyhow. A few more minutes in a day of peace and rest, regardless of what you believe.<p>

The ocean surges to my right. To my unseen left are the coastal cliffs. Ahead of me is open road, winding this way and that, dashed yellow lines on night-black pavement illuminated only by the headlights of the Jag. The high beams cut just so far into the darkness, brightening a small bubble for me to travel within. I've been behind the wheel a long time, twelve hours with only a handful of breaks, and the stiffness settling into my neck is telling me it's time to stop again.

Give myself a break from the ruminations of war, Riley, and Bella. Breathe in some sea air and breathe out some stress and longing. Stretch from this cramped position.

I've been home in the States for five years, and in that time I've gotten older. Maybe not wiser. But definitely older.

I was young in Afghanistan, a word that sounds different in my head than when I speak it. I butcher it with my American mouth, flattening the A's and lingering on the G, but in my mind it's whisper-sung by a fluent tongue. Softly. So softly spoken. Ahfuhnistahn. The emphasis coming soft at the end of the word, like a flourish – delicate, beautiful. Harsh and throaty at times, like _Khyber_, which sounds like a guttural whisper, hybehrrr. The whole language is a song to foreign ears, like the mullah calling the faithful to prayer, or the stretched trill of a longspur. Like Umar's small hand tugging at my pants, his, "Edvard-jan-agha," and his quiet, "Inshallah." _God willing. _He would go to Peshawar, Inshallah. The Taliban would not return to Kabul, Inshallah. I would take him to America. Inshallah.

I never promised to. Maybe I should have. Maybe that would have changed things.

Sometimes I dream in a different cadence, sometimes I think in it. Sometimes I miss that place, but I never miss myself there. Sometimes it feels like there is not an hour that can pass me by without some kind of reminder. Other times, now, I manage to go days blocking the memories.

Afghanistan, harsh and magnificent in its unequivocal majesty. The rocks, the over-baked smell of dust, like linen stretched to dry in the sun. A hot, almost sweet smell. Radiating off the earth, the thick golden light smears human creation into a watercolor of futility. The sun bites down with sharpened fangs, sinking its teeth into absolutely everything green, leaving traces of its touch in blurry heat waves against the horizon. Everywhere you look you see the heavy atmosphere, dense, like dusk at midday.

Trapped between dirt and sun, people scurry like insects against an epic land, civilization challenging the terrain, as permanent as a house of cards, as enduring as a cardboard box fort. Sometimes I knew, without a doubt, that a breath of wind could knock it all to rubble. But it doesn't; it never could.

The winds that blow through Afghanistan may clear out the pungency, but like the Taliban, the scents creep back in. Oozing from cookery, open sewage, and death.

Death has a smell the body knows–pervasive, eerie–and the land is anointed with it. With sacrifice. The ancient grooves of the Hindu Kush cut into the crust of the Earth like scars, bearing witness to so much endless war. Those hills hiding secret caves, gushing melted snowpack to drain in the valleys, earth which has been painted and repainted in blood.

Politics and Pashtunwali mean nothing to those hills, the nuance separating Sunni from Shi'a, the faith that separated them all from Monguls, Britain's guides, Russia's Red Army or American "liberators." Those hills have seen generations of Jihad.

Jihad - the struggle. The struggle for Islam, for its people. It's a concept I only barely understand. But I know this much… Afghanistan embraces it, embodies it, bears the scars of it, wears the shroud of it, carries the torch and wields the ax that needs a good hard grind. There is no putting jihad to rest, not when you see it everywhere you look – in the lined faces and dyed red beards of its elders, the hidden faces of its daughters, the experienced faces of boys who have seen more in ten years than I had in 25. Jihad thrives in conflict, so conflict thrives.

From the sugar cane fields and power plays of Jalalabad, the warlords convening to guide Americans to Bin Laden—or to guide Bin Laden to safety—no one really knows; to the dormant kites of Kabul, the zeal of Kandahar, the poppy fields of Marjah, and from there to the desperate poverty of mud-made villages. Unchanging Afghanistan looks on, over pomegranate trees and poppy buds bleeding out their opiate juices. Human perseverance and inhuman suffering. People eking out a life, squeezing joy from it in whatever way they can.

On the other side of the world, the golden child—land of the free, home of the brave—abundant, forgetful, bounty melting into waste and indifference. America. A place that hasn't seen ground combat since the Civil War, the atrocities of which should be stamped indelibly on the collective psyche of a nation. But no one seems to give a shit except the scholars of war and famine.

The Civil War ripped through the fabric of America and in the devastation was more devastation. Behind the curtain of war, civilians betrayed, starved, schemed, suffered and died. Tables turned on the wealthy, fortunes changed for the poor, new profits were made by the ruthless, and a purgatory of placelessness was endured by the liberated.

And the women… the women, with their graceful endurance, persevered against rape and starvation and disease, as best they could.

Bella.

I'm thankful for the providence of her birthplace: America – prosperous and protecting her from the atrocities that go on outside its borders. She is safe.

In the years after the Civil War, the fabric of America was eventually sewn up again with the needle and thread of combined purpose. If you look carefully you can see the mend, but years of prosperity have made it faint. It's been relegated to the history books, flat chapters that cover the Emancipation Proclamation and Gettysburg. The scorched earth policies of Sherman and the burning of Atlanta. In school we learn enough to pass a test and then we quickly forget.

I remember reading that it was a messy and brutal war, brother against brother. But they were just words. There's no real education in those words. Those words neglect the terror, the stink, the mutilation and its rot, the maggots, the hunger. The words "brother against brother" do little to illustrate what divided loyalty _really _feels like. What it looks like.

It looks like Afghanistan.

The reality of conflict is that the powerful, the manipulators, hide while fate finds the young and old, and weak and poor, crushing them soundlessly under the boot of war and occupation. Men on high move chess pieces across the face of the earth, steamrolling those whose voices can't be heard, dispensable pawns in the search for checkmate.

The game pieces in any war should be moved to protect the king, the monarchy, the democracy, the ideals. In Afghanistan there is no king. There are only knights and bishops and they move at cross-purposes.

This isn't the first time my contemplations of war and religion have led me to pointless analogies that disintegrate as I mull them over. I used to think it was therapeutic in some sense. Distancing myself by turning massacre into metaphor. You do what you have to do to get by. I've been doing that for years. Getting by. Instead of getting better.

I've often felt a sort of kinship with Afghanistan in that sense. Myself, and the nation, getting by, but not getting better. Fractured over time, a great cleaving wrought on the nation, like a whittler taking his blade carelessly to the wood, hacking this way and that, until all you have are splinters which can't easily be reunited, not under one hand wielding an all-purpose glue. American-made glue doesn't make that country whole.

Foreign intervention just stirs the pieces around, sticking splinter into splinter, creating an effigy of hope and democracy that can't survive the flame of extremism.

More fucking metaphors.

I flip on the radio, skim through stations that mean absolutely nothing to me, voices I don't know announcing songs I don't want to hear. Nothing matches the sound of my own thoughts, filling the quiet of the Jag with a long-drawn wail. I turn it off. It's out of place here and now, this American music. It doesn't match the rhythm and tempo of my foreign deliberations.

Not foreign, just… far away.

I pull off the road into a dusty viewpoint, killing the engine and stretching, muscles uncoiling after long hours behind the wheel. The sky is full of stars, absolutely every single one of them glowing and blurring together in the canopy of night overhead. The Pacific Ocean, an enormous unknowable beast, laps loudly against the rocks, leaving sand, the detritus of erosion marking California's slow ponderous sink.

The coastline changes. It takes time, and violence and persistence. But it changes. One day, the Pacific will be knocking against the Sierra Nevada's. One day.

How's that for a metaphor?

And what does it mean when you smile to yourself, genuinely, with only the darkness as your witness? For what feels like the millionth time, I wish Bella was here with me. California is her place and the thought of her is never far, not here.

The ocean brings its wind; salty, bracing wind lifting the hair from my scalp, calling the blood to the surface of my face, bringing feeling back into distant hands and feet. I stroll to the railing and peer beyond it. The night is full of sound, thunderous waves thrusting and breaking below me. I can see whitecaps rushing towards me in the blackness, faintly visible and frothy.

I don't know how long I stand here, breathing in the sea and staring, my layers of cotton and flannel no match for the cutting gale. Eventually, I back myself against the hood of the Jag, the engine warm and tick-ticking as it cools.

It's daytime on the other side of the world. But the stars are still out there.

You can almost feel them move.

Midnight. A relative absolute, marked by clocks, experienced everywhere as the globe spins . Murky, mystical midnight, the witching hour. I'm done musing. I'm done meandering up and down mental streets of murder, mania and misery. For now.

Holding the phone over my face, the dim glow blotting out the stars overhead, I pull up Bella's sleeping face and send her a text. Sending it not only from Monterey Bay, but from a world much farther away.

**You awake, Scheherazade? I need a story. ~E**

Her response is quick and it makes me smile.

**I can't believe you know how to spell that. ~B**

**Full of surprises.** I admit via text.

**What kind of story do you want? ~B**

**I'll take anything, as long as you tell it. ~E**

My phone rings, very loud, very artificial on the precipice of all this organic Earth.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I'm bleary-eyed and ready to bend my heavy body into a different position by the time the sky begins to whiten with the dawn. I'm so close to my destination that I keep driving; there's no point stopping until I get there.

Bella and I talked about a lot of nothing, until her voice started to droop and her responses got sparse. I could feel the rise and fall of her journey into sleep, her breathing and tone following the arc of a parabola – down into murmuring whisper, then jolting back upwards as she brought herself awake with an abrupt, "I'm here. Sorry."

Finally, she was gone; the muted whistle of her breath filling the quiet car as I maintained my head, aimed south, aimed away from her.

The dash reads half past five as I roll into Mission Beach. I debate a cup of coffee, but really, what I need is sleep. A couple hours worth, at least. I'm fatigued, not just from the drive, but also from fighting the impulse to flip an immediate bitch back to Seattle. It took effort to keep the car pointed south, the Jag eating up black asphalt and choking it out the tailpipe. Every mile was forced.

I was dogged by the urge to go back to Bella. Back to whatever she needed to tell me and the dark fountain of her hair. At times it felt like a physical imperative, my body begrudging the distance I was putting between us. Another part of me persisted that I need to do this. I need it.

Go, stay. Coming. Going. Fuck.

More than once the words, _should've flown,_ popped into my head. Should've darted down and back, easy and over with, in the space of a handful of hours. But that wouldn't have been right. Somehow, seeing Riley and opening old wounds, never quite healed, requires more. More time. More effort.

And I needed prep time.

I needed to fucking… figure out… all that needs to be said. All that should remain unsaid. I suppose, ultimately, what needs saying will be. I don't know. At this point I still have no fucking clue. I just need to rest.

I pull into the parking lot of the Pacific Terrace Hotel and self park. The morning air is cold and fresh, carrying a faint trace of summer waffle cones, mixed up in the salty smell of seaweed.

I cross to the entrance, double doors whiffing open as I approach, and drop my sea-bag to the floor. I place my I.D. and credit card on the polished marble reception counter. "I need a single, non-smoking, on the ground floor, please."

The receptionist picks up my cards and asks me if I have a reservation. Her tone is a little haughty, and it rubs me the wrong way. I should've picked a fleabag. It's the middle of fucking winter for fuck's sake. I let her know that I don't, making my voice a command. She looks at me, smiles, and asks how long I plan to stay.

"Couple days, maybe three."

"Coast-side or pool?"

"Coast."

She runs through a selection of rooms with pricing and I end both her monologue and my growing impatience with a wave. "Just give me a room with a bed and beach access."

"You got it, Mr. Cullen."

Her nimble fingers punch the keyboard; she slides my cards. More typing.

"How many keys?" Her voice is distracted as she opens a drawer under her counter.

"One." She runs a bright plastic card key through the strip, tucks it into an envelope and hands it to me. Then she spreads a tri-fold map of the hotel on the counter, using a red pen to circle the lounge, the gym and the pool before finally drawing an oval around my room and wishing me a pleasant stay.

Inside the room, which has a distinct Bombay motif, I drop my shit, plug in my phone and strip down to boxers before falling face first into dreamless slumber atop a bright floral bedspread.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Riley's family has money, like mine. It was something we had in common. Something that I noticed about him from day one. It was easy to recognize the rich kids who wanted to be front-liners. The rich kids with noble ideals about war. Those ideals died, even if none of my squad did.

You know, going into the Corps, that it will change you. With desperate regret, I look back at the ways in which I expected to change, hindsight enabling me to categorize my own naïveté and see it for what it was. Naked misunderstanding. War changes you in ways you could never anticipate. You might not lose men to death, but you still lose them. The men you touched down with are not the same men slapping each other's backs chanting, "Going home. Going home!"

There is no going home.

Because home exists inside of you... and when the torment of combat, futile power politics, and petty cross platoon bullshit has eroded your core, you realize, it's rotted out your home too. Like an infestation of termites, gnawing away, gnawing. Gnawing at you.

Irrevocable change. Cored. Gutted. Infested. Tormented. War is a disease of mankind.

I am diseased.

I was shot outside of Kabul. I lost consciousness in the helo to Bagram. I awoke again in Germany to a nurse humming gently from somewhere in my room and the warm scent of laundered bedclothes. The clean smell of my own skin and the sharp tang of disinfectant. She told me that it was nice to see me awake and that I was lucky to be alive. All I wanted was water. I was so thirsty. She held a straw to my mouth, telling me to go slow, and then ran through my vitals. Lucky.

I came back to the States and everything was wrong. The toilet, so pristine you could drink from it. I had never in my life, stared so long into the clear ceramic bowl as I did one day during physical therapy. I had lost my sense of time and place, and it seemed a crime, almost, to piss in water that clean. It seemed a crime that I had never even considered something so trivial.

War is a disease that reshapes how you see everything.

The next year was a blur. I was discharged. I was summoned for ceremonies. I fought to regain the use of my left arm. I struggled to wrap my fingers around a phone, a pen, a glass. I drank with my right hand. I held my fork with it too, awkwardly, and cutting my food proved to be a time-consuming and painful process.

I tried to flout my years in the Corps by staying in bed late or lying about. But I couldn't sleep and I couldn't sit still. I couldn't get Umar out of my head, the bravado that died on his face when the bullets tore through his small body.

I saw the things around me while not seeing a thing. I spent many nights on the balcony of my mid-town apartment watching twinkling boats get tossed up and down on the Sound. I tried to ignore news networks and their "war coverage," but invariably, the remote control always ended my channel surf on CNN or FOX. The disgust and outrage I felt, while people simpered on MTV, blew things up on FX or tried to make me laugh on Comedy Central, finally felt appropriate when I landed on a news network. As though my feelings matched what I saw, allowing me to ignore a fact I later came to understand, that I was plagued with the irrational anger of a displaced person.

I relegated myself to watching dumb fucks speculate about operations overseas. Tidy little dispatches being announced by tidy little talking-heads. Soldiers with no names being reported dead by cavalier anchorwomen with too-perfect skin and teeth. All of them faking concern while panic gripped me.

"_Six U.S. troops reported dead in suicide bombing at U.S. embassy in Afghanistan. No one has yet taken responsibility, but early clues indicate that the operative may have been of the Haqqani network."_ Just the right emphasis on just the right words, fluctuations designed to convey the import and dire nature of a situation she was reading from a teleprompter while my mind raced.

What troops? Who?

Then there were expert consultants who yelled that I served corruption. Or their opposite number, fanatics suggesting that that part of the world needed to be wiped out, that there are no "civilian casualties,"—especially not where I was deployed, against the Hindu Kush—training ground for terrorists.

_Terrorists_. The buzzword that makes moms hold their children tighter.

Buzzwords and makeup so clownish even the men look spray-painted. How had I never noticed? It was all I could see now. All I could see were dollar signs all over their faces. The plastic surgery and the capped teeth. I wallowed in hateful speculation that victims of acid attacks should deliver news. Girls who have undergone fifteen or twenty surgeries just so that they can close their eyes or eat food without it falling out of their mouths. I want them to give me my news. No. I wanted them to give news to others. I wanted to scream.

_This is what is out there! __Stop ignoring it._

I found myself morbidly fascinated by the circus of it all. The hysteria surrounding violence that was until very recently, the norm for me. While people here seem to muster just the appropriate amount of sadness before moving on to weather or the latest sex scandal. All while looking perfect, injecting their faces with Botox and slurping down 600 calories or less.

Nothing made any sense. Not for a long time.

I got so sick of listening to people try to explain a war they had no understanding of. No historical perspective. No cultural perspective. Without those things, all you have is propaganda – sensationalism. And I didn't want to fucking hear it. Not any of it. But I couldn't stop watching.

I rationalized that news networks are just feeding the people what they want. Sound bites and images of horrific violence that won't ever touch them, enabling them to stay wrapped nice and neat in their indifference.

It was everywhere: indifference, in every pair of eyes I encountered. I envied it, the day-to-day simplicity of other people's lives. I would see them flipping through magazines at the checkout counter or eating Monte Cristos at patio cafes, smiling. Laughing. No cares. Normal life surrounded me, while I found myself jumping at the metallic crashing of garbage collection or some blowhard squealing his tires taking a turn at high speed.

I found myself screaming in the night. Now I just cry.

I tried to rediscover concepts I thought I understood. Patriotism, terrorism, safety, security, information. I failed. The only thing I fully rediscovered was my anger. I woke up each morning with a vast purposelessness. I couldn't stand it.

I went to work.

I tried to break my life into the small comforts that underscore what _safe _actually feels like. Small comforts that emphasize just how fucked a thing like _safe _actually is. I started to drink. At first a little. Then more and more.

I met Rosalie. I met my mother. I met bitter disappointment. My feelings of anger were accompanied by betrayal. I met my inheritance. I bought my condo, down the block from my apartment. I bought nice suits and expensive Scotch. I bought women with a few drinks, a few words. I found a sort of oblivion in my profligacy.

I got angrier and angrier.

There were no tools to tamp down my rage, my discomfort, the injustice that dogged me, the memories that plagued me. There was nothing except stalwart forward motion and constant fucking vigilance.

War is a disease and I am its hostage.

A hostage seeking to forget. But I can't. I just have to accept it.

Time to man up, as the fucked expression goes.

Time to open old wounds and sew them shut. Time to mend the rip. Time to help myself move on, and maybe Riley, too, although… it's been years.

I get out of the Jag and slam the door, filling my lungs and emptying them as I walk across the street.

Riley lives in a slightly rundown apartment complex that probably commands astronomical rent based entirely on its beach-side location. The small porch is painted green concrete and marked by a lightning bolt crack right down its center. Some type of vine climbs the railing, wrapping itself over the door, bare of leaves and blooms. Maybe a Bougainvillea.

When I dialed Riley's number yesterday, I told myself that the first contact would be the hardest part. I reiterated that as the phone rang, shrill in my ear, interrupted by Riley's rumbling, "Yeah?"

My heart had hammered in my chest. "Riley?"

"Yeah."

"Edward… Cullen." This is my name… there are many like it… but this one is mine. Diseased.

The silence then had been full and ripe, broken with the bang of his once a Marine, always a Marine timber, "Corporal?"

My first instinct was to correct him. I discharged at the rank of Sergeant.

Tread lightly, Marine.

"Not anymore."

I could hear him swallow on the other end of the line.

"I'm going to be in your neck of the woods. I know it's short notice. And Christmas…"

"Yes, sir. You know where I live. Same place. I'll be here."

That had been yesterday. And this is today. This Scotch is my gift to both of us. But not really. I know what my real gift is. The Scotch just serves as grease to the wheels that need to turn in order to crank out the words.

All of them.

Words to fill the years where their having been left unsaid allowed wounds to remain open.

Here, I understand a new part of my nature. That you can fight with honor and still have none – none at all, when you let a man like Riley Biers bear a burden not his own for far, far too long.

I knock with a craven hand and a moment later the door swings inward.

Riley, like his beloved birds, is built for flight. His body is economical; strong, whipcord muscles stretched over a light frame. The kind of man who can endure. The kind of man who could run the farthest in the shortest time, despite also being the heaviest smoker. Riley could go the longest on the shortest ration; he could stretch himself the furthest on the quickest nap; he could sit still the longest with the least fidgeting, and he could smile the biggest and the easiest and at nothing important whatsoever. He was a quick-witted sonofabitch who carried a 22 lb gun in addition to 50 lbs of gear, and he could take a beating, hit after hit being absorbed into sinewy finality, as if he felt no pain, until his aggressor weakened under his own fatigue, his muscles going soft and useless as butter, and then Riley had one thing for him. A sucker punch to end it all, and then a hand up and a smoke.

And no hard feelings.

His hair, still a cockscomb sticking out over perpetually sarcastic eyes that see fucking everything. Eyes like the flat, honed blade of knife, cutting to the quick without a word.

Cutting right into me, a steely scrape to my spine. Taking me backwards in time, giving me back my own military assets. Size, stealth, intellect, and something else… premonition. And yes, courage.

He greets me with a head gesture. I wonder if he's afraid to address me incorrectly.

I don't want to do that fucking song and dance.

"Riley."

"It's... it's fucking weird, man. Seeing you."

I hold out my hand to shake his, and he looks at it like it carries Anthrax. "Fuck that, man."

And just like that, the song and dance is over and two grown men, two decorated Marines, are in each other's arms.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Small talk is an art form in Afghanistan. No parlay with tribal elders can be launched without the meandering nothing talk that slowly builds towards the true goal. No inquiries can be made or pursued until preliminary observations about the weather, the chai, or the trading of livestock regarded and discarded. This is how Riley and I start as well. How fucking appropriate.

We spend a solid fifteen minutes discussing trifling nothing, as Riley moves about his kitchen, getting glasses, ice, getting distracted. Looking at me, looking AT me, and then through me, in the same manner I must see him. I see him here and now, and I see him then. Now. And then, all swirling together. I need a drink.

"You drove down?"

"Flying down the coast at 90. Got here in the time it used to take us to go 250 klicks."

"Kabul to Asadabad. Shit days man."

They really were. The road connecting to Kabul to Jalalabad and then north is pockmarked and blistered; the shoulder littered with remnants of Russian tanks and other wreckage. Aside from the toll it can take on your suspension, you have to be alert for signs of IEDs or ambush. There are teams that go out with metal detectors and dogs, often ahead of a patrol, to clear the way, but those resources weren't available to our squad, embedded as we were with ANA, the Afghan National Army. And as a Marine, you don't expect it. The army gets all the good shit. Fucking pampered babies who get everything they want. As a Marine, if you don't have a little MacGyver in you, then you're fucking useless.

A ton of open space and you traverse it at a motherfucking crawl. Intolerable stretches of time in a Humvee—if you were lucky—a Hilux if you weren't, either way you were baking. Pissing fucking brown despite liter after liter after liter of water and Gatorade. One after the other.

Riley hands me a glass of Scotch and pops the cap off a Medio Litro of Coke. I raise a brow at him and he gives me a weary smile. "It fucks with my meds, man."

"Sorry. I should've..."

He waves me off. "No. No. I'm gonna blaze though, if you don't mind."

I shake my head as he falls backwards into a chair, pulling a three-foot bong in the shape of a beaker from behind the couch. With knobby fingers he lifts the down-stem and starts packing it, talking to me without looking up. "Can't seem to find a sleeping pill that kills the nightmares. This shit does the trick. Don't dream at all. And Ambien. And sometimes..." he tapers off, shrugs and changes direction. "What works for you?"

"Nothing, really."

He directs his knowing gaze towards me, giving a small nod, before returning to his bowl. "So... you drink that swill because you think it's sophisticated?"

I raise my glass to him. "Tres."

Riley snorts. "Fucking full-of-shit, man. Always were, sir."

I lean forward, elbows on knees. "None of that. Okay? Let's be civilians... today."

He nods, pulling a lighter off the coffee table. I watch him chamber the smoke, sucking slow until the white fog is as dense as marshmallow, and then, in an instant, the down-stem is out and the cloud vanishes. I look away from him as he leans back, eyes closed, face strained.

In true Riley fashion, he has a pair of African Greys in a large enclosure right off the back patio. They twitter and murmur, nuzzling and pecking gently at each other. I'm reminded of Bella, how the top of her head feels under my chin.

Some birds mate for life.

My mind wanders to the gardens of Pakistan, offering sweet oases for peacocks. They perch along railings, their ungainly bodies squat and awkward, balanced against the flowing weight of their plumage. They seem to flump down to the dirt, waddling hesitantly away from you.

When I look back over at Riley, he is tucking the bong back in its little hiding space. Two abrupt streaks of red mark his cheeks, one under each eye. This brings me even closer to Lance Corporal Biers, how he used to redden in the sun, right against the bone over each cheek. He used to take shit from the men for being a lily-skinned Irishman, and you would never recognize his Lebanese half, to look at him.

"You have a woman." It's not a question.

"What makes you say that?"

"I saw you looking at Cab and Min. Got a look about you I never saw. A relaxed sort of look. Kinda far away and more than a little longing. Let's go out on the patio."

We do and the ocean wind hits me full in the face, damp and grainy with sand. It looks like it might rain, the slate horizon blurring ocean and clouds together. Riley offers me a cigarette. I decline as he sparks his own, taking a drag and then pointing it casually at me.

"Glad for you, Cullen. It always sucked watching you get passed over on mail delivery. Although, we didn't mind the pictures of your sister. What's Alice up to these days, anyway?"

More irony. The only mail I ever got in the Corps was from my sister. Get out of the Corps and meet a woman and lo-and-behold. It's my sister. I chuckle to myself, surprised that I'm finding anything worth a laugh right now. Especially the fuck-all situation with Rose. But that's past, and I'm going to leave it there and move on.

Maybe that is how the seeds of healing take root, simply in the absence of anger.

"She's good. Still talking too much. Shopping too much."

"Sounds like a woman." His tone is slightly reverent, suggesting that the capricious ways of women are something to be appreciated.

I sip my drink. The Scotch is cold, Riley having served it on the rocks. Somehow it's good this way, today. The chill of the drink helps keep my mind here, and not on the tepidity of living out of an abandoned qalat in Afghanistan. "You seeing anyone?"

He shrugs. "Not very good boyfriend material. Drug problem, ugly as fuck, go-nowhere job. Go-nowhere life. Living off the family. Attitude problem. Oh yeah. Everything a woman's heart desires." It occurs to me that Riley needs a Bella too. Maybe everyone does.

"You working?"

"Doing some freelance writing. Op-eds about the ongoing war on terror. Nobody reads 'em. Except maybe the guys over at Al Jezeera. You gave up smoking?" I nod before Riley goes on. "Wish I could but… nah not really. Don't give even the fucks necessary to find two and rub 'em together. Lung cancer. Who honestly gives a fuck?"

I know what he means. Sometimes the days are so full of bullshit that – who really cares.

I didn't smoke before the Corps, and somehow, I didn't smoke after it. But during... That soft cool spread of nicotine in the bloodstream, finding your nerves and giving them a heavy dose of chill-out-man. Leaving your coherent mind in tact, sharp, available. Sometimes, it was the only sanctuary you had.

The wind riffles Riley's short mess of hair and then mine, our eyes still just taking each other in. His mouth puckers a bit and his chin starts to nod. "Y'look like you're doing okay, man. Don't know what to think about all that hair. But I guess it suits you fine. In fact, you look more like Big Cat now than you did then, with all that fucking hair."

I haven't heard that nickname in a long time, and it tumbles my guts.

_Private Edvard-jan, he is zmaray… rawr... like big cat._

Umar had only referred to me that way once, early on—his small face fierce, his fingers curled into claws—but it stuck. Like glue, as they say. Or, maybe more appropriately, like the Afghan dust that coated me in every moment, the dust that followed me out of that land and into others.

With his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, Riley sucks in a big lungful of smoke before blowing it out, saying, "You're still pretty quiet. Never were much for the smalls. So you want to cut to it?"

Riley was always an easy talker, with a soft rumbling voice that just seems to hum out of him. A calming voice, in part because of its owner. A man who always had your back. A man that was always first to raise his hand when someone was needed for any job. Even one that involved eating local fare, which was never his preference. He preferred MREs, jerky, and coffee.

I had first deployed to Afghanistan as a Private First Class, and then a handful of years later as a Corporal. In between I had been sent to Eritrea, and returned to Kabul with some of my former platoon and a handful of grunts. Riley had come out of Pendleton, one of a few "Hollywood Marines" we had in our squad. It was a different group, different vibe. But we worked well together, which was a good thing, because, unlike my first deployment, we encountered insurgents and took enemy fire regularly.

"Why don't we?"

"Why fucking don't we, indeed?" He chucks his cigarette out into the sand and gestures back inside with a quick jerk of his head. Back inside, we don't sit, and Riley looks at me expectantly. It's a look that insinuates that I'm the one that drove a shitload of miles to be down here.

I don't know what to say or how to start. All I know is I should've been here, doing this, years ago. "I'm… an obtuse ass."

"Yeah."

We both smile. "Why didn't you contact me when you got out, or...? Why do you live down here, why not the Sound?"

Riley's rough hand mows through his hair. "Cut right the fuck to it, Cat. You know. You know the answers to these questions, man. Fuck." He is quietly adamant. His "fuck" is little more than a whisper. I'm hushed too, when I speak.

"I don't blame you, Riley. Never did."

The whites of his eyes are reddish, the lids too, and they dart away from me, resting, I think, on his Greys. "Blame. Who gives a fuck about blame? I killed a kid, man. I killed a bunch of people over there. From a distance. It was my job. I killed a boy up close and personal. I wasn't wet behind the ears, Corporal. I knew how to take heat. I.D. the enemy. I go over that moment all the time; the fucking bullshit rules of engagement just gone, out the window, man. You… you… you could've got to him. Even after you were shot, you were still moving. You only went down after he did." Riley faces me, but his eyes—still on his birds—have a long distance look about them. Like he is seeing me from behind, seeing me fall. "And you knew, like I did, that if you and I were to ever look at each other again… that kid is all we would see. Blame? Who ISN'T to blame… and really… who gives a fuck?"

"I do. I've been... choking on my own blame for years. I'm… I have to get past it. There is no atonement in anger."

He looks at me with critical eyes. I hold his gaze. "Sounds like a Rachelism."

"Yeah, man. It is."

He lets out a small humph, and I see his fingers fishing in his front shirt pocket for his cigarettes. "Even talking to the shrink-extraordinaire. Good for you, man. I mean that."

I shake my head. "No. It's not good. It's fucked."

"If you came down here to clear your shit with me, I'm telling you. There isn't one part of… anything. That you can say… that will change shit for me. I didn't know the little dude, but I will never stop thinking about him. They sent me back. You know that right? I got deployed again. To Helmand province…"

He slips a cigarette from the pack, tucking it in his lips as I motion for him to give me one.

We end up back outside. Riley doesn't face me as he lights his smoke, passing me the lighter. His face is turned towards the surf, wetsuit-clad teens drag boards through the sand. A bearded man in a Chargers sweater throws a Frisbee to his dog. A couple of kids are trying to untangle a kite about forty meters down the shore.

"I love it down here. I love the pace of life. Even in the winter. The ocean, man. It's different down here. The summers are hot and sweet. Like a fucking Scorpions video with the girls walking around almost naked and jugglers and body builders and nobody taking anything too seriously. I can hear fireworks on the 4th or even an old piece of shit Detroit muscle car backfiring and not break into a cold sweat. Because I know where I am down here. I'm in America, carefree kids packing water-pistols at best. Suntan lotion and snow cones, man. Funnel cakes. They anchor me to what my life is now. I can't… live… in Seattle. It's too… full of who I USED to be. Someone who didn't know… what exactly… is out there. Stupid fucking kid. That's what Seattle is. Not you, sir."

I take a drag of the cigarette and nod. "I thought you were discharged… after…"

I see him shake his head out of the corner of my eye. "Probably should've been, though. 'Cause I was no good after that. In your squad… I was a Marine. Before that, I was a Marine. After that..."

He turns to me, leaning lightly against the railing.

"After that I was just… seven stone in stripes. Gallantry in the line of duty. Horseshit."

I nod again, thinking of the medals Alice keeps.

Riley goes on. "In a fight, any fight, there aren't shades of gray. You can't consider right and wrong unless you want to end up dead. In a fight, you have to believe you fight for right, and there is only winning. The need to win - for right. The ambiguity… waits for you… waits for you to explore it, when the guns are laid down. And then, that's where…you find your guilt. Or it finds you."

His voice tapers off as he tucks the cigarette between his lips again; the pause is marked with the soft crackle of burning tobacco.

"And then… you have to find a way to live with it."

"I don't know how. Sometimes I just want to forget–"

Riley interrupts me. "Nah, man. You can't forget. Remembering is your burden, even more so than the fighting. Pass it on, and tell your kids, tell everyone. Tell fucking everyone, man. Tell them the truth. When you kill, parts of you die too. When you make war, you can't fucking look at people who take their peace for granted. You are burdened with the memory and the responsibility, and their expectation that you fit right back in to the American way of life. Yeah, you're fucking ecstatic to be home... until the welcome wagon rides off and you have to be alone for the first time."

His eyes move to mine. Aside from Alice fussing over me and a brief awkward visit from my father, I was alone right away. "To some extent, that was the hardest. Still is."

There were nights of my deployment when I fantasized about being alone, what a relief it would be, but it's hard. Desperately hard.

"I thought… maybe you would re-up." He flicks ash over the cinder block ledge.

My turn to snort. "Not likely."

He makes a noncommittal sound and blows out a puff of smoke that immediately finds the breeze, dissipating as it leaves his lips.

"You… made the effort… to understand those people."

"Didn't make a lick of difference."

"Still. There's enough chain-yanking that goes on over there–"

"Part of the reason I couldn't go back, Riley. Yeah… I thought about it. I had caught wind of some projects in Kabul. A school... I thought about it. Maybe… a different sort of man…"

I don't know what kind of man, just not me. Before I know I've decided to speak it aloud, it's out, "I don't think I was cut out to be a Marine."

His expression is one of blatant disagreement. "No disrespect, sir. But you were the best Marine I ever knew."

"Didn't get around much, then. Did you?"

"Got around enough. Enough to see real courage and its opposite."

"I just… couldn't go back. You'd think I would've been sick of the day-to-day shit we were all sick of. The food, the Cipro, the dirt. The devastation. The waiting, the baking. Even taking heat… you sort of… acclimate to it. The fucking Toyotas we used to get ANA around. Bulletproof, my ass. But that wasn't it."

"No. No, it wasn't, was it?"

And that is the simple truth of it.

It was war I couldn't take. Which is an altogether different thing from being shot at, watching the truck in front of you kick up on one wheel because it just hit a roadside bomb. War is an immense, repulsive thing; something so much more than aggravated and sustained murder. You think the bad guys are going to be clearly labeled - like in a game of Call of Duty. They will have color-coded identification marking them as a target. You flood Marines and soldiers into a place like Afghanistan and we are ready to ferret out terrorists and take them down.

You know they won't be wearing a sign, but you still look for it. And you don't find it. You find masses of villagers, townies, kids even—innocents—all of them and none of them. Trapped in the middle.

_Al Queda? Al Queda? There is no Al Queda here._ A village elder cries in front of you with nothing but destruction around him. _There is no Al Queda here. Only old women and goats._

You start to learn where the insurgency is by how hard it is to get the local people to accept anything from you. Medical supplies, food. They try not to look when we roll through with ANA; they hide when we knock on their doors. You try to demonstrate that you are here to help by offering their kids candy or coloring books.

How the fuck do you pass through a village where two weeks ago you played music with kids and emptied your truck of antibiotics, only to come back and see that those same people have been punished? Had an example made of them? Bruised children missing teeth, slaughtered livestock, evidence of fire. How do you cope?

I once asked a Surobi man with one arm and a Boston Celtics hat about Taliban in the area and his whole body language changed. _No. If we help you, then they come for us. _Downcast eyes, shaking fingers. Three weeks later I found his body next to a mortar during mop-up after a firefight. The bastard had been shooting at us.

You have to draw a picture of terror with your eyes closed. Because you cannot trust what you see.

The lines blur everywhere you look.

Good guys and bad guys all just become... guys. And some of the bad guys are holding the line behind you. Some of the bad guys are your Quick Reaction Force who fail to show, claiming to be laid up behind what could be a road-side bomb, while your CO is pulling the magazine from his own weapon and tossing it to you, yelling that you better fucking make it count.

And you do. Somehow you see the sunset. You were sure you wouldn't.

It doesn't take long before all you see is unending purposeless violence. Like a mirrored hallway, your reflection goes on forever. Vengeance upon vengeance upon vengeance upon vengeance… dating back to an unknown original crime. Who fired the first shot? And when will we be able to say, enough blood has been spilt into the dirt to pay for it a million times over?

When can we leave the vendetta behind?

The answer is never. It goes on and on, and it's just totally pointless.

You live it, for months at a time... and then you are supposed to just forget. Join the ranks of the indifferent.

People starve and die while the rest of the world ignores them.

Including me now.

I think, maybe... it's not indifference, but powerlessness. We feel like we can't do anything about it. Why try?

But there are things that _are_ within my power.

It's always within my power to say and do and act and extend and reach for something better. To be something better. To carry the burdens of others to any extent that I can.

To open my mouth and say the words that may be unwanted or unneeded, but to say them anyway.

Like in this moment.

"I'm sorry, Riley."

"I know, man. Me too. Every day."

"Every day."

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

"Edward, hey."

Bella's voice is a tonic, a soft restorative. It feels so good to hear her say my name. Not Big Cat, not sir, not Corporal, not Cullen.

"Hey."

"How goes it down there?"

"Mmm. I don't know. Pretty on par with what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

I stretch back against the pillows, working my left hand into a fist then relaxing it. For some reason it feels heavy and slow today.

"I expected it to be hard, and it is. But it's also… cathartic. I feel like… to some extent, I'm detoxing. Emptying out. I feel exhausted. But, better somehow."

"It's like… a pilgrimage, sorta."

I smile. Things I adore about this woman. She understands me and what I'm trying to say. Sometimes she says it better than I can.

"Yeah. It is like that."

"Without the wandering. Upside. Without the starvation and deprivation. Upside."

"Oh, there's a sort of deprivation."

"Oh?"

"I miss you. In that way I feel very deprived."

In the following silence I imagine her lip coming between her teeth as she ponders how to respond to that. Her voice is quiet and gentle when she finally says, "I… miss you, actually, too."

It's cliché as fuck, but part of me oorahs at that. Just a little.

"Do you?"

"Yes. It's weird. I own a queen bed but I always sleep on the same side. I don't lie in the middle. And I've never really... shared a bed. But now when I roll into the empty space. Well, it feels a lot emptier."

"Good. I want you to want me in your bed."

Her laughter is small and sweet. "You have no idea."

I wonder what she's doing, where she is, and try to imagine her, curled up Bella-style on her couch with one knee tucked in. My mind morphs the image into a feeling of settled security and peace. Her voice is quiet when she goes on. "So, how is Riley?"

It occurs to me that Bella is never a caricature of concern or forced anything. She shows me genuine care and respect, even when she's pushing. Genuine laughter. And she calls me on my shit when I'm full of it.

"I don't know." Honestly, I _don't_ know. "He seems… better than I expected in some ways. In others, very damaged."

"Sounds like someone I know."

"Mmm. Different though."

"How so?"

I consider it. "_Festering_ is the word that comes to mind. I think I avoid remembering; he forces himself to. Even when he shouldn't. And it doesn't help him move on. It keeps the wound open. I don't know if you can understand what I mean…"

"No, I do. I understand exactly what you mean. He lets it trap him. He can't move forward."

"I guess I'm the same way, to some extent. Same but different."

"Me too. Are you finished down there or are you staying longer?"

"I'm staying."

"How long?"

"I'm not quite sure yet. Did you work today?" I ask.

"No. Took vacation. And tomorrow too."

"Good. You've been working a lot lately."

"The marathon. I told you... December is busy for me."

"I remember. On Halloween. You weren't kidding. When was the last time you had a day off?"

"Before this weekend?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmm. I guess... it was that weekend you got back from Costa Rica."

"I want to take you there, Bella. Would you go with me?"

I can feel her trepidation, even at this distance. I remember the days I spent down in Central America enjoying a different piece of this huge ocean we all live against. I remember regretting, for the first time, being there alone. If I could go back to that moment in her hallway, when I first imagined Bella laughing along the shore, would I steal her away with me?

"Paradox," I say, before I've put any real thought into it, and before she has given me an answer.

"What?"

I close my eyes. "I was just thinking that if I could, I would travel back in time and take you with me to Costa Rica. I wanted to, you know?"

"Did you?"

"But if I had, then we wouldn't be here now. If I went back in time and took you then... I wasn't ready then, Bella. I would've... taken it for granted. I'm past that now."

It takes me a moment to realize just how true that is. If Bella had gotten in my Jag on Halloween, I wouldn't be here in Mission Beach now. Her saying no to me, as fucking irritating as it was at the time, and the several times after that, changed the trajectory of my life. Because I would have fucked her and moved on. The sequence of events that led me down here originated in her.

I'm finally getting a grip on myself.

"Sounds like wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey stuff."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. You said – paradox. Like... if you could go back, knowing what you know now, would you change things? And if you did, would you lose the motivation that led you backwards in the first place? I love that kind of thing."

Our thoughts are very similar. "Paradox."

She laughs, low and sultry. "Paradox."

"Would you?"

"Go back, you mean?"

"Yeah... and what would you change?"

"That's a loaded question."

"Humor me."

She quiets and in her silence I rise and fill my glass. The cigarettes with Riley earlier were a bad idea, because my fingers itch for another. Instead, I pull a few cubes of ice from the bucket and plunk them into my glass. For some reason, everything is out of whack for me right now. I prefer my scotch neat, but in this moment I want to suck it from the cube, cold and light and stifling in its perfume.

"Yes... I think... given the opportunity, I might change things... but, I don't know. If I went back with that intent... I still may fail to... do... what I think I should."

That's an odd choice of words. "How far back would you go?"

"Not far."

"So, within our association then."

"Yes." Her voice is soft and it makes my pulse quicken. This is a new kind of anxiety. I feel like I've come a great distance, and there's the very real possibility I may get sent back.

I won't let that happen. I won't take Bella or her gifts to me for granted. "I'm glad you can't then, Bella. Things between us may have been ugly at times-"

"Just a little." Her tone is playful and I smile in response.

"-but they happened that way for a reason. I don't want you to change them."

She agrees with a light laugh, a laugh suggesting time travel is possible and we've ruled it out as an option. "Alright. I won't change anything. But remember you said that... okay?"

I chuckle with her, relieved for no real reason. "Remind me."

"Deal."

"What are you doing right now?" I ask, wanting to see her clearly in my mind.

"Not a crossword puzzle." My response to that is instantaneous. I think she can sense my reaction, she laughs again before saying, "I'm cleaning my battery and testing the charge."

It occurs to me, fleeting and irrational, that Bella would have been a great Marine, then I banish the thought in disgust. In a heartbeat, I have the full understanding of what her life would have been, what it would be now. I don't want that life for her, but it feels like... what she would be now – she would be the same girl. Guarded, but courageous; tentative, but daring. Still, finding the edge of the universe and trying to touch it.

It comes to me, strong and certain, like the hackles that rise off the neck before the first thunk of a mortar. She and I are the same. Somehow, we are the same.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Riley lifts his coffee mug halfway to his mouth and says, "Remember Garvey?" Then he sips, the steam rising thinly in front of his face.

"How could I forget? What the fuck is that hellhound up to these days? Do you know?" Lance Corporal James Garvey, Baton Rouge born and bred, he was a consummate professional. He was brawny, thoughtful, and always had to be chewing something. His care packages were full of gum, sunflower seeds, and toothpicks. He, L. Cpl. Diego Santiago – a Mexican-American badass – and L. Cpl. Riley Biers were my trio of team leaders, each with three Marines under them, making up our squad of 13. Sometimes we rolled with the rest of our company, but more often we were out on our own with ANA.

We're on Riley's patio. The surf is wild today. Intense and loud; white and foamy. Again, the ocean matches the sky, the horizon is a blur of froth and fog, with wetsuit-clad kids paddling out and tumbling down. The smoke from our cigarettes curls up and joins the haze all around us.

"Heard he's a Staff Sergeant now, embedded with ANA down in Paktika Province."

"Fuck"

"Can't be worse than the Korengal."

"It can always be worse, Riley."

"True enough, sir."

I cough against the constriction in my throat and slide a Camel out of Riley's pack.

"Do you ever wonder how the ANA are doing?"

"That place is a clusterfuck. The ANA... will either figure it out or they won't."

Clichés have a home in war. Some were likely born there and persist in our vernacular because the essence of battle is unchanging. It fucking sucks and people die. That said; the ANA has an uphill battle, one I was fatigued of right out of the gate.

There's two hyperbolic nothing statements right there. War is always an uphill battle. War _is_ fatigue.

The ANA is criminally undersupplied. Not a pot to piss in. It was probably sold in the night, along with gear, boots and fuel, because Afghan soldiers scarcely make enough to feed their own families, let alone the scores of _yateem_, orphans that get taken in by uncles and brothers, in addition to the wives, sisters and mothers they already support. Afghan soldiers are brave, not without fear, with a moral understanding of their plight and their fight. They can be undisciplined in their gusto, breaking ranks when the chase is on, and they can endure like no other people. They battle in-fighting, shortages of ammunition, food, water, gear and their morale stays high. They embrace their roles as caretakers within their communities, pulling dwindling supplies from their trucks to help their countrymen. They loathe the Taliban, and some had been fighting longer than I'd been alive.

Like America, ANA is a melting pot. You have Hazara, Tajik, Uzbek, Pashtun and Arabs. Add to that some U.S. Army, Marines, and Royal Marines. You have Muslims fighting together with Christians and even Jews. And the godless. We trusted each other, or tried to, despite the tensions borne of long intolerance. And, fortunately for my squad, insurgents rarely infiltrated our ranks.

If the army gets the good shit, and the Marines fight with what they have, then ANA is the most hardcore of them all. They fight with nothing and they do it with honor. They do it without helmets, sometimes decorated in henna, and they face a foe that is not only crafty and well trained, but also well provisioned and highly armed.

Riley interrupts my reflections. "When they stormed the ridge..."

"I know." He is referring to our first ambush. The first time we felt the courage of our Afghan allies.

We were escorting a platoon of U.S. Army out past Naghlu Dam, winding our way down into a narrow canyon in a ramshackle line of armored Humvees and pickups. The road was a mere ledge carved by donkeys and goats, worn over time by abused trucks and their stubborn drivers, flanked by a swampy wadi on our left, the canyon wall on our right.

We had come down slowly and were trundling up the other side, nearly to the crest, when I heard a thunk-boom, and out the rearview of the Hilux, saw one of the army rigs bringing up the rear belch out a bubble of orange flame and black smoke. The heavy chugging sound of the 50 cal echoed off the wall of the canyon, mixing with another thunk-boom and the hollow pop of a Dragunov.

There are different kinds of gunfire. Pop. Silence. Pop. A Dragunov. A sniper has you in his sites. It feels personal. It feels terminal. It feels different than a suppression fire. It smacks of patience and professionalism. You feel it cold in the small of your back and the tiny crevices of your brain. You feel it hot in your ears and your feet. Move.

We came to a sudden stop, the road behind us choked with vehicles that couldn't advance. Dust clouds billowed up and drifted back the way we came, while chunks of earth were carved out of the wall of the canyon by the seemingly invisible hand of RPG fire, heavy clods of dirt raining down, increasing the chaos.

I radioed my CO at the front of the line and got nothing but static in response. I remember feeling a spike of fear, mixed with fury, and then I was out of the truck, advancing towards his Humvee, keeping low and moving fast. Why the point of our line had stopped was beyond me, but we had to move. I'd been out patrolling enough to know that in the bottom of a Hindu Kush bowl all your radio could bring you was choppy garbage, if anything. We were under attack and the GI Joes could bring in a QRF—ours was too remote—or even air support, but they needed their radios to do that. We had to clear the road and get them out of the kill-zone.

I felt a presence behind me and heard Riley's low double cluck, not unlike Fantastic Mr. Fox, without the fanfare. It was his way of communicating, fast and easy. It said all I needed to know. Riley was keeping eyes behind us as we plowed through the shooting gallery. Most of the fire was being directed at the Humvees stalled in the canyon, but the occasional whiff of a bullet let me know that someone was firing at us as we worked our way up the incline.

What we found there took a moment to register. The driver of the Humvee was out cold or dead, slumped forward against the controls. My CO, 1st LT. Sharpe sat dumb, cradling a crackling radio, the blank look in his eyes speaking for him.

There is no way to know how men will react to combat; it's a psychological shit-storm you cannot test for. It teaches you things about yourself, and there is no training or exercise you can undertake to understand who you will be in that moment. Who you will be when it's real.

Combat boils the nonsense out of any man, leaving behind only the very essentials of him.

LT. Sharpe obviously couldn't handle it. He had checked the fuck out and his vehicle held up the line, keeping the caravan behind him trapped in the perfect ambush zone.

I remember trying to rouse the 1st LT, "Sir. SIR, we need to move, sir." Nothing. Riley and I shared a look and hunkered down next to the Humvee. ANA were abandoning their vehicles, taking cover or scurrying over the crest of the ridge, trying to find a vantage point to return fire. From where we were, our assailants perched in the cliff-side redoubt opposite; we had no shot. We needed the high ground. I heard a hollow scraping sound, later I would trace the path a 7.62 cal round etched across the top of my helmet. The same caliber would pierce my lung several months later.

The next thing I knew I had a very angry U.S. Army 2nd LT in my face. Buckman was his name. He had seen our CO and wore a look of disgust. I couldn't blame him. He ordered me to round up the ANA and get these fucking creepers creeping. His men were taking the brunt of it just behind us, and we needed to move our asses.

The senior officer on the field was my CO, but he was done. Mentally vacationing in scenic Afghanistan.

I took orders from Buckman, who was now responsible for orchestrating the fight. Garvey had climbed out of his rig, and together with Riley, we got the line moving. From the precipice of the canyon we, along with 2nd platoon, unleashed hell on the side of the ridge. It's funny how a mortar sounds different when it blows from your side of the fight. It sounds like winning.

We were pissed. We were fired up. We yelled profanities with each victorious shot.

Later, when combat became somewhat routine, we fought in cold mechanical silence. But not this day.

When the enemy started retreating back over their ridge, I heard Buckman bark my name. "CULLEN!" We convened near his Humvee, and he pointed to a mud-hut sagging at the top of the canyon opposite us.

"_I'd_ use it for CCP, sir." I said to him, confirming what I thought he was asking me. If I thought the hut was the enemy's casualty collection point. He nodded in response.

"Lets do it. Your ANA up for it?"

"Yes, sir."

With the help of our 'terp, I communicated our orders to ANA. And then they were gone. Afghan soldiers lumbered down the canyon and, fueled by the rage of war, charged up the opposite side of the gorge. We followed.

It was preached to us, over and over. This is their war. Help them fight it. Make them go first. Sometimes we did. Other times that proved to be strategic disaster.

I wasn't ready for what we found up there, and I wasn't the only one. The plateau was a mess. Pieces of people littered the rocks, smears of blood where bodies had been dragged. The smell of burnt flesh and death accompanied the carnage. Some of my men vomited. I wanted to, but the thing about leading men in battle, even as an NCO, is you must always set the example. A private can throw up—or cry—but if I had given in to both those urges, I would lose the respect and the trust my squad placed in me; and there are no opportunities to earn it back. Not in war, not if you want to survive – and keep them alive.

The mud-hut, though empty when we got there, had been recently used and was stocked with supplies, bandages, painkillers, antibiotics. All bore the label of a Peshawar hospital.

The border between Afghanistan and Pakistan is a volatile place, one that is only recognized by maps and diplomats. To those who live and fight along its twisted path, it is a non-thing. Pakistan is a supposed ally of the US, an allegiance that spans minutes compared to the eternity of being a landmass shifting between the borders of India and Afghanistan. We shed their blood in Afghanistan, and Pakistan patches them up, rearms them, and sends them back at us.

It was frustrating. It was nauseating.

Still, it was victory. And that day, we celebrated. But only because we were fresh for the fight. In later fights, the silent ones, the victory palls, with every shot you watch your soul get shaved away. You hit the chow-hall in silence and you lay awake in your rack.

"I thought I would die that day," I admit to Riley. He slurps his coffee and smiles at me.

"Yup. I did too. Thought you would die. Fucking crazy fucker. I remember thinking, oh FUUUCK. There goes the Corporal. I guess I'm following his insane ass."

"I didn't have to go half as far as Buckman. He came from the bottom of the trench." He was red-faced and winded when he barked in my face.

"Wonder how he's doing too."

I'd wondered that many times. Our squad got pretty well known in our province, so did Buckman's platoon. That ambush wasn't the first time his men and mine fought together. His platoon was pure grit, and we crossed their path several times. I don't know where Buckman is now, if he is still fighting or retired. Like many men I fought with, anxiety grips me when I consider trying to find out. I direct my attention back to Riley.

"How was Helmand province? Where were you? Marjah?

Riley nods, pulling another cigarette free of the pack and lighting it.

"Fuck."

"It was fucked. I was deployed with a bunch of yahoos. Dudes who didn't take shit seriously. There was a lot of inter-platoon BS. We lost a couple of good Marines because of it."

Riley sucks his smoke and tells me stories of Helmand. Some are familiar – the other NCO who gets in your face, telling you how you should've handled your men, even though his have never been engaged. Rockets dropping all around you in the dead of night, and you can't return fire, because they're firing from Pakistan. That magical invisible border of friendship protecting them, but not you.

Trying to negotiate with local elders, trying to get them to communicate or cooperate. Trying to piece together truth from fabrication, friend from threat. Exploring the house of a warlord who is better armored than you are. New boots, mounted 50 cal guns on the roof, an arsenal in the crawlspace. Weapons amassed for years of tribal warfare – or for THIS war? You never really knew.

Giving a man your word, and then having to take it back.

Coming across malnourished, beaten, or wounded kids. That was always the worst. Sometimes it's our bombs, sometimes the Taliban bomb their own countrymen – either way, civilian casualties are devastating. And the violence doesn't always come from war. Kids who could claim protection in the states have no options there. Like the women. He tells me of the Afghan soldier suspected in the death of the man's sister. Honor killing, one of the many dark sides of Islamic extremism. He tells me how he had to continue to fight next to this guy, how he was a brave soldier and well-liked, but the other soldiers spoke of his taking his sister into the street and killing her for refusing a perfectly good marriage. He dumped her body at the mosque.

"How do you fight for these people – after that?" Riley's voice is thin and tortured.

It's a good question.

"I heard you were discharged for psychiatric reasons."

"Yeah."

I turn towards him. He won't look at me. He's been talking all day and now he's evasive. He looks at the ash growing in a splintered column at his fingertips.

"You don't have to tell me about it," I offer.

He shrugs. "Nothing to tell, really. I just... cracked up."

I pull another cigarette out of the pack, and he hands me the lighter.

"It was just... it was just pointless. I just remember thinking it was all pointless. It seemed... well, it seemed like a cosmic fucking joke... you know? Their god, our god, their kids, our kids... their kolbas, our towers. I mean... what the fuck are we fighting for? Don't ask me, man; I don't give a damn." A funny little laugh escapes him as he taps his ash over the ledge into the sand.

That laugh. It isn't Riley's. It comes from a place inside of him that cannot find anything serious, anything worth pulling the trigger for. It's a sharp resigned little giggle, and it does not belong to a Marine. It tells me all I need to know.

Riley brings shaking fingers to his lips and he nods to himself. "Yeah. I... lost it out there. It was a surprise, really. I didn't see it coming. One day I'm bearing it, and the next day I'm not. Really, that's as much as I understand. I checked out. Hard. Laugh, cry, die. Heaven, hell. You know, Cat? I just... it just didn't matter anymore. I lost my grip on what I was doing. I never got it back."

I didn't check out. Not once, not like that. But, I know what he means.

I wonder why I didn't snap and Riley did. My first deployment had been relatively smooth. If I had had a first deployment like Riley's, and then a second to Helmand province, or Khost, maybe I would've lost it too. If you lose your perspective in the midst of a war _that _convoluted, there may be no getting back. Coming home doesn't make it better. There is no place for you.

Riley must be thinking the same thing because he speaks again. "One in five take their own lives, Cullen. And I know why... because you can never get comfortable, not anywhere and not with yourself. No one wants to see you struggle. No one wants to talk about it... no one wants to acknowledge the drug problems, the apathy, the unemployment... the suicide rates of ex-military.

"How do you fucking blast a guy with white phosphorus, fry their faces off and then have a casual conversation with a coworker on an assembly line, man? Where would I be if I didn't have money? I would be living in a refrigerator box in San Francisco, screaming nonsense at anyone who would listen. But you know what? No one listens to those people. They can't. They have to stay insulated from it.

"And you know what else? You know why those nut-jobs talk to themselves and yell? Because that is how you get through boot, man. People yelling in your face and jerking you around and feeding you what you need to eat to be strong and survive. But then they cut you loose, man. They change you and use you and leave you to die in a park in some US city. You went into the corps with an identity, your DI smacks a derogatory label on you… and then you're a Marine. Then you work to destroy that label. I am not my money, or my family. I am just a Marine. You prove it every day. I'm no different than any other Marine. But, then… Then you crack up or discharge and they slap new labels on you, like HOMELESS and ADDICT. They like to let you think there is some kind of brotherhood that carries on back here. But there isn't. There is brotherhood in combat and nowhere else. And only with those that have your fucking back. It doesn't exist here, unless you are standing over someone's fucking grave, man. And all these people… just…"

Riley pauses and drags both hands through his hair. I let my breath out.

"Have no idea?" I venture.

He chuckles. "Yeah. The world isn't a beautiful place. It's shit. You live in it long enough, you never get clean. You can wash and wash and wash… but you always know… what it feels like."

His words are so like mine. And not just about the war, but everything. I let out a small choked groan. I know what I want to say, but the words elude me. He looks at me and I chuckle. "The R&R of retirement, Riley. Rage… and resignation."

"Sums it up."

We smoke in silence and then he says, "It's the video games that get me, man. Someone should make a video game where you spend three days in full gear with no A/C… I guess the effect is the same. Killing brain cells along with bad guys."

I smile sardonically. "A video game that comes with its own food. It gives you the runs and you have to take a dump within thirty feet of your rig. It should come with flies too. The ones that crawl over the bodies and then land on your face while you try to catch a nap."

Riley snorts and I go on. " To me… it's the music. The hostile music blaring from cars speeding past me the street. Music that makes American life some kind of battle. It's not."

"Not for you, rich-kid."

"Not for anybody, Riley. Not like that."

He knows what I mean. I mean people infested with maggots while still alive, women in hijab with children in tow begging on every street corner because their men are gone or dead. The orphans of the Taliban, the orphans of the Red Army. The orphans of a world that doesn't care, dying in asylums, or being grabbed by the Taliban and given guns.

"Sorry, man. I don't mean to be an ass. I'm a rich kid too – and a punk-ass."

"No, to some extent, you're right. America is a different thing for me, because my family has money. Not everyone has the easy life over here."

"I am right. It happens a lot." He gives me his big irreverent grin, transforming his face, giving him a cavalier attractiveness. "But being right doesn't change anything."

"Maybe not. But finding purpose does."

His head shakes, but he's still smiling. "Whatever the fuck that means."

"I mean... you write those articles, the ones nobody reads. But they do. Some do. And in any case, you aren't writing for them."

"Maybe."

I clear my throat and curl my fingers into a fist. The first part, the curl, is easy. The fist, squeezing it, makes the muscles of my arm quiver and the hollow under my arm buzz with a ghostly tingle. I may be imagining it. It may be real. Does it matter? "I'm done with it Riley. I'm done... I'm ready."

He nods.

"I can't live my life in the shadow of that place. What I did. What I accomplished…" I shake my head. I can see the tawny strands of my hair waving slightly. "So many dead. And Umar. I have to let him go. I can live with the consequences. And that means – this too."

"This?"

"Yeah. You were my brother in war. And then I let you be a stranger, in peace. Or... whatever this American afterlife is. And that isn't right. Not for me. For you, for Umar, and for myself. For the people I care about, Riley. I'm here. For you. I'm telling you so that you know. When I look at you, I only see my brother."

Riley's hazel eyes moisten and I want to look away. But I can't.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Leaving Mission Beach is hard. Harder than I expected.

Checking out of the Pacific Terrace, I feel like I've only just taken the first steps of a long journey. I feel like I could travel further down here, on my road, than home in Seattle. I toss my sea-bag in the back of the Jag and turn towards the shore one more time.

When I look back on my life, all of it, I see scattered behind me the memories of the displaced. In my youth, I never felt understood or accepted by anyone except Alice, not until the Corps. And even in that service, there had been tremendous loneliness. Until Riley.

He was from my part of the world, but we found each other on the opposite side of it. At first, it was simple camaraderie, the shared places and experiences of Seattle, but it didn't take long before it was more than that. We both knew it then, outside Kabul; and now here.

In that sameness there is comfort, there is validation, there is healing. I should stay here exorcising all the words and all the memories, until they are used up, wrung out, emptied of their power.

But even stronger than my need to stay is my need to go.

Home.

Not back to the steely grays of Seattle skies or the organic neutrals of my condo. Home is the dark hair and dark eyes of Bella Swan. It's in her touch, slight but assured. It's in her smell which carries a hint of the Oriental, beloved to me, with the strawberry infusion of something purely American. Her laugh, easily given. Her kiss, which I lost and then had to earn back. I'm going north into the first battle I've ever truly wanted to fight. The first battle where I understand exactly what I'm fighting for. The warm heart of a woman.

I pull onto the highway and find exaltation in speed. I scarcely see the other cars, registering them only long enough to put them in my rearview.

Traffic through LA is fucked. I figured if I took I-5 I could shave several hours off the drive, but gridlock chews away at the time I thought I was saving myself. I put in my Bluetooth and call Alice first, then Bella.

I haven't spoken with Bella since my first night in Mission Beach. We've exchanged some texts, but no calls. Primarily because every night after that first one, I stayed up long and late with Riley. We filled our evenings with mindless shit, movies and music, in addition to the rehashing. I read several of his war columns and eventually found what sleep I could on his sofa. He crashed in his big green armchair; anything is comfortable after trying to catch a nap in a wadi.

The phone burbles a few times in my ear before Bella's VM picks up and asks me to leave a message. I do, and a few hours later, when I've given up on the interstate and cut back over to scenic 101, the phone chirps.

Her voice wraps around me like warm caramel on a Halloween apple as she explains that she missed my call due to a late meeting at work. We discuss the party tomorrow, and she reluctantly agrees to let Alice come and pick her up if I'm not back to Seattle in time. She hedged, and I don't know why I pushed. I would be just as content to spend New Year's Eve doing nothing, as long as it's with Bella.

Actually, I do know. It's ridiculous, but I have this image I've been cherishing this whole trip down. Bella, her eyes aglow, reflecting sparklers flaring in dim light. Her mouth, cool and fresh and tasting of bubbling champagne; her laugh, frothy and light. Tipsy New Year's Eve Bella, finding her in the crowd at midnight. I look forward to this party with the expectation of magic. It's a new feeling.

I didn't go to prom; I don't enjoy weddings. I didn't have any preconceived notions about the first time I slept with a woman. I didn't go into bootcamp with delusions or romanticism. I didn't wage a war with my own heroism in mind. I struggle through social events – sometimes I don't know why. Because I'm expected to, I suppose. Because in some ways, it's easier to be alone in a group of people than by yourself. But now, about tomorrow night, I have a vision of Bella and her smile, me returning it. A new year. A new chance, a new opportunity. I want to tell her all of me, I want to show her, and I want it to start tomorrow night with how I feel about her. It feels good to want this.

The drive down was silent, full of my own thoughts. The drive up is the opposite. I fill the soft inside of the jag with music as I speed up the coast. I pull into a truck-stop when my eyes start to blur. I lean my seat back and sleep. I don't dream.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

It's raining when I finally ease the Jag to a stop in my parking space underneath 33 stories of fuck-all; I'm stiff and some of the energy and optimism of Southern California has faded. I'm back in Seattle, and I can't help thinking of how Riley described the place as belonging to the dumbass he was before his deployment.

I shouldn't have come back here. For me, Seattle holds not only the loneliness and angst of my youth, but also the despair and mourning of my adulthood. And a million mistakes. I can feel the self-loathing creeping in, and not for the first time I wonder if Seattle is a place where I can even attempt to be happy.

I bristle against the old bitterness.

For the first time, the thought of leaving Seattle, leaving Cullen Insurance and my condo, feels right. Like I'm allowed to go. I've done my time; I don't have to stay here. If it would be best for me to relocate, then I deserve to try it.

A sick wave rolls through my chest.

I won't leave Bella.

I make my way through the lobby, slip into an open elevator; the prestige of the building grating on me. It all belongs to who I was before my trip south, and I feel the shame that this place seems to hold over me.

Fuck. It. All.

I take a hot shower, almost unbearably hot, and shave the week's growth of beard from my chin and cheeks. I haven't really looked at myself, not since leaving Seattle for California. My reflection looks different. I don't know exactly how, I look older maybe.

I brush my teeth and stride into the bedroom, pulling the Brioni from the hanger and tossing it over the sleek bedspread. In my peripheral vision, I see my phone light up. A text from Alice.

**We are here. Where are you? ~A.**

**On my way. ~E**

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Carlisle's McMansion is teeming with people.

Four bars have been set up on the main floor and they are all being overrun. In the formal dining room, I find my father at the head of a high stakes hold 'em table clogged with gamblers. He gestures for me to come take a seat but I wave it off, returning to the atrium where guests crowd around a roulette wheel and craps tables.

The kitchen has been closed off. Jane's people bustle in open view, layering bite size appetizers on big silver platters to be passed through the crowd. I slide around the chairs blocking the room and pour myself a glass of Johnnie Walker Double Black, down it, and pour another.

I recognize the dark-haired kid from the Hospice event and give him a nod. He offers me the tray of canapés and I decline, asking him if he's seen Bella.

"She's in the game room downstairs playing Blackjack."

"Thanks, man."

"No sweat."

I head for the stairs. Carlisle's basement is divided into a huge game room, a master suite for guests and his home office. My head is full of the noise of the party, glasses clinking, ladies chattering, men congratulating each other soundly on this win or that success. I'm slipping through a knot of congregated elite when I come face to face with Rosalie, all red shimmer and blonde coif. Her expression turns sour at the sight of me.

I feel it in my chest. Hollow disgust and self-recrimination. An itch against my lungs, in my ears, and over my eyebrows, making them scrunch into each other.

"Edward."

Her voice is as acerbic as it always is when she addresses me. We will not be having a discussion, her tone says. We will acknowledge each other, and then politely ignore one another for the balance of our forced proximity.

I force myself to smile. "Rose."

The look of shock on her face makes my smile real. It goads me. It frees me. "Wish I could chat, but I'm looking for someone." I pretend to tip my non-existent cap at her, and head down the stairs, leaving her standing there, mouth ajar, holding her Cabernet.

I chuckle to myself on my way down the stairs. How could I not have seen it right from the start? Her startling green eyes, the slightly crooked row of teeth. It was because of her smile. Our eyes, our mouths, they look different on her, because she carries joy in hers, and I never have. I couldn't see our similarities, because they are found in expression and not in feature. They are found in mannerisms, and Rose and I have never shared those.

Maybe letting the past rest is as simple as smiling, instead of scowling. I don't know if I can, but I can try. Although, it feels harder here.

I'm trapped, here. I'm angry. Here.

The game room isn't quite as crowded as upstairs; people are hovering around spot-lit, blackjack tables and keno, and even some antique slot machines that actually take nickels. They chime and light up every few seconds, bathing the room in bright red and yellow light.

I sense her before I see her, and I see her immediately, leaned forward over the green felt corner of a blackjack table. She peeks at her cards and then turns her face to me. I wonder what the biological reason is for the acceleration of my heart.

I don't smile, just drink her in, just glory in this feeling of homecoming. Recognizing it for what it is.

A small peaceful island in a universe of shit.

Her lashes sweep down and up again as the left side of her mouth quirks up in a half smile. Her restrained smile, but her eyes are full of words; I can read them there like a prayer from a card. _Hello. I'm happy to see you._ I rejoice in response. All my feelings are reflected there, in her red-brown eyes, and my smile comes.

People brush past me on the stairs, but it's distant, my body and my soul are disconnected. I register the movement but it means nothing to me. I just soak her in, her hair falling long to the table, the high collar of her sleeveless vintage blouse, closed at the throat with tiny pearl buttons, and her exposed arms, long and graceful. And of course, her hand, splinted in black, holding an empty glass of what was most likely bourbon.

I mouth to her, asking if she needs a refill and she nods. Her lips are glossed, and I watch them form the words: _Knob Creek, neat. _

There are two bars, one on each end of the room, both hosting a small cluster of people waiting for gold-vested bartenders to shake, stir and blend alcohol into their favorite concoction. I head to the one nearest her seat. I could go kiss her now and then get in line, but something about the anticipation, the thrill of it, the seeing and not touching, it's savoring. It's the opposite of wallowing. I will stretch it out; I will bask. And then I will claim her.

I watch her play her cards, efficient fingers placing chips in front of her. Her beautiful face squishes in concentration a few times as she considers splitting or doubling down, her eyes darting back to me every few minutes, a light blush coloring her face when she finds me watching her.

It's then that the hushed conversation behind me fades from white noise into distinct words. Two men who got in line after I did are regaling each other with tales of their sexual escapades, ice sloshing around in their empty glasses.

One of them, his voice loose and crass from drink, is detailing some woman here at the party. He didn't really expect to see her again, and certainly not here of all places. Yeah, he hit that a long time ago, and he describes it in terms that make me a little tense. It's been a while, after all.

"It's desperation that makes a pussy grip your cock like that, and infrequent use." His laugh is slightly feminine, clashing with his words and irritating as all fuck.

I move up in the line and place my order with the bartender. She bats long, sparkling lashes at me, the gold paint over her eyes matching her vest. She excuses herself with a big cheery smile, having to go pull another bottle of bourbon from the supply room. She slides around the bar, and I tune back in to the chatter at my back.

Perfect, from the waist down, he says.

If you drink enough, it really doesn't make that much of a difference, he says.

Better than fucking an ugly girl, with hairy tits, or, you know what really bothers him? Inverted nipples. That shit just freaks him out, he says.

The other guy laughs, and I can't help the roll of my eyes. I hate kiss and tell bullshit.

I sip my drink as he casually mentions that she isn't here with the guy she's sitting with, they're just friends, and he may just try to take her home tonight.

"Which one is she?" The other man behind me asks, his voice deep and only slightly interested. Bored curiosity I guess, like my own interest level.

"That one, the one in the high collar over there. Brown hair, brown eyes. Talking to the pony-tail guy. See her?"

_Fuck me_. He means Bella.

I turn and rake my eyes over him. Boyish faced and cocky mouthed. Hair like that dipshit in the Karate Kid movie. Blond and in his face.

"You wouldn't be discussing Bella Swan, would you?"

He looks up at me. I am a good head taller than him. "Oh fuck man, I'm sorry. Is she here with you?"

"She is."

"Sorry, man. That was… fucking rude. I'm sorry." His sincerity is coming across as sniveling, and I know I'm biased, but I cannot compute how this puny man-child was permitted to even breathe the same air as Bella Swan. I glance over at her from the corner of my eye. Jasper is talking earnestly to her, using his hands, and she's nodding. Probably discussing Star Wars again.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Oh sorry. Mike. Newton. My family owns the sporting goods store in Uptown Plaza. Esme's my like… 4th cousin or something." He holds his hand out to me and I ignore it.

"Right. Howard Newton is your dad?" I know Howard; he's one of Emmett's clients. "And apparently, you know Bella?"

Mike Newton stammers. "Yes. Haven't seen her in a couple years though. I'm not, you know… interested. Really. I mean, she broke things off with me. But I was cool with it. It was… kinda weird for me. To be honest. You must be… you know, a better man than I am. I guess." His face is reddening in random blotches. It makes him look unwell.

"What the fuck, man?"

His hands go up, as if to ward me off. "Sorry… I'm sorry. I just never understood why she… you know… didn't fix it. No offense if you're into that kind of thing. I'm not. I mean, she's beautiful… but… and she's nice enough." He shrugs.

His disjointed babbling is really grating on my nerves. It doesn't help that I'm fucking lost.

He looks at me and I see realization dawn on his face. He leans in, pressing his elbow against my arm like were fucking buddies and his touch can hold me here. Like he is about to lay it on me and I may need his support. "Dude. She only has one tit. You didn't know?"

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>

**.**

**.**

**.**

**About Peace One Day**  
>(Thank you to <strong>DreamingInNorweigen<strong> for putting this together.)

Now, for a public service announcement ...

Help us spread awareness of Peace Day, an annual day of global ceasefire and non-violence.

Recognizing that fanfiction readers and authors are a huge, connected community, we are encouraging you to use your collective power to make a difference in the world.

The non-profit organization Peace One Day led the process that resulted in the UN declaring September 21st as Peace Day. Every year, Peace One Day partners with a range of organizations from around the world to raise awareness of the day and to encourage Peace Day activities by all sectors of society, including life-saving activities in the name of peace — things like distribution of humanitarian aid, vaccinations, and trainings that help people improve their lives. Through efforts like this, in 2008, Peace Day marked a 70% reduction in violent incidents in Afghanistan. Ceasefire agreements by all parties to conflict in the country, including the Taliban, resulted in millions of children being vaccinated because health and aid workers were able to travel without fear for their lives.

This year, Peace One Day is working to see the largest global reduction of violence, and the largest gathering of individuals in the name of peace, on one day – Peace Day 2012. The Global Truce 2012 campaign will set an important marker for future Peace Days and reinforce the value of this unique annual day as a foundation for long-term sustainable peace.

What can you do?

Do you write? - Copy and paste the text above into your next Author's Note. Use your power within the fandom to spread the word:

•Visit my blog (ireenh. blogspot. com) for links, tweet suggestions and how to sign-up for the Global Truce campaign.


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.******

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

Wait, another minute here. Time will kill us after all.  
>Can you feel its second hand wrapped around your neck?<p>

~Cold, Evans Blue

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p><em>You didn't know?<em>

I don't feel the tumbler slip from my hand. It shatters against the floor, glass skating out in every direction. Heads swivel around and perk up to point inquisitive faces my way.

The room has become a pressure cooker, silent save for the sultry saxophone of easy listening coming over the ceiling speakers. My heart accelerates into the uncontrolled bursts of suppression fire, blood loudening in my veins, drumming from heart to head.

_Wasn't it clear from the start? Look… the sky is… full of love…_

Amidst the dissolving chimes of spreading glass is Mike Newton, his cheerily conspiratorial face–all big head and no decency–a bobblehead wagging back and forth in my inflamed vision.

_You didn't know? You didn't know? _

I don't go thrall in my fear, I never have. I move. I act. Fear feeds my purpose in cold certain waves, condensing this room, those words, that girl, my past, our future into a tiny cataclysm of understanding. Into a clench of jaw and fist.

Mike Newton takes a step back from me, his red face pursing in a look of contrition and unease.

That's right, motherfucker. Step the fuck back.

Bella.

I hear the whispering start around me as my eyes find hers. Her gaze jumps from me to the piece of shit next to me as her shoulders curve forward. Her smile, her beautiful smile, her smile that can illuminate the whole world, dies. Right there on her face.

No.

Glass crunches under my shoes.

Not her. Anyone but her. Anyone else. Anyone.

My hands are on her, the room falls away as I pull her to her feet and lead her into the guest suite by the crook of her arm. She is warm and acquiescent. I wonder if her heart has turned to cold flame like mine has. If her fingers tingle with that itch. If her pulse patters like the caged. If her feet have regressed from flesh to stubs of clay. I think so, the way she drags them.

Glass crackles to shards beneath our steps, collecting at the hem of her skirt and scraping against the floor in clusters. Like my blood, broken, clanging inside my head, sticking behind my eyeballs and piercing them. Flooding my vision in red.

I kick the door closed, my grip on her tightening. I don't want to let her go, but she pulls away from me and steps back.

"Show me."

After a moment a mile wide, her hands move to the delicate pearl buttons at her throat, undoing just enough to allow her to tuck her efficient fingers inside her blouse. She pulls out a rubbery beige mound and puts it into my hand. It's warm from her body.

"There. That's second base. You got there. Sorry it took so long." Her tone congratulates me on our ruin. It disregards anything I might feel or say. It smites me with nonchalance while panic claws me inside out.

"I'm not in the mood for jokes, Bella. Show me your fucking chest."

"I don't want to." She sounds petulant, like a child, her stubborn chin coming up as she takes a step back. Like a deceptive, duplicitous child. Or, like a grown woman who doesn't, hasn't–not once–trusted me.

Her face accuses me of all I've done.

All that matters to her, in this moment, are my trespasses against her.

She's standing in front of me keeping score. In the balance hangs this heart, hammering inside my chest and it doesn't matter. None of it. I gave her my soul and all she gave me was lip-service.

My rage is legion. I am empty of tolerance. My patience for the slow crumble of my life is over. I'm fucking done with this bullshit.

And so is she.

I close the gap she just put between us, pulling her to me. She doesn't pull away, her body compliant as I open her shirt. The sound of buttons bouncing off tile fills the room.

I can smell her hair.

I watch her face, her eyes down, lashes casting dark shadows against her lightly powdered cheeks. Her eyes lift to mine. I push her bra up. On one side of her chest my fingers find a soft breast with a stiff peak, and on the other, a knotted twist of scar tissue.

_Fucking breathe._

It can't be as hard to do as it seems.

Her face vanishes as my eyes close. A chorus of grinding teeth fills the silence of my mind.

Once upon a time a bullet ripped through tender flesh and vital organ. Mine. At the time I was convinced that I would die. I was wrong. I lived. Sort of.

I run my thumb over the knotted skin that marks us both. The irony is not lost. I'm not the only one who barely survived. I'm not the only one mangled and living inside of a scar. Living an afterlife.

Twisted, twisted death mark, terminating over the thunk of her heart. Terminating the thunk of my heart.

No.

That's wrong. It's the other way around. The scar is her life, the seal that bound her flesh after disease was dug from it. The breast with its slight weight in my palm, that is death. A soft subtle death device. A new IED, following me from the desert to kill me a thousand different ways. Her.

NO.

Her face reappears, eyes boring into mine. In their depths I see a history that must have been there this whole time.

She had cancer.

My physical therapist once told me that cancer survival stories are for the aged. It claims the young. It dogs them from their genetics and brings them early to the grave. She told me this while battling ovarian cancer in her thirties. She's dead now.

I want to throttle Bella's vanity. I want to end it. How could she be so fucking stupid? There should be _two _scars here.

A voice, a quiet squeak from a dark tunnel inside me. _There ARE two scars here. _

_Somehow, we are the same._

I just need to calm down; I just need to breathe. I just need to hold her for a minute, but she pulls herself away from me and covers her chest with her arms. Her hands clasp under her chin, her small elbows pointy. The pose of a praying corpse.

My mind feeds me a million things I don't want to see. Recall from all my dreams of her, dumping her body into Kabul dirt. Looking for blood, looking for a pulse, my hands pushing aside curtains of hair in every frustrated attempt to find her face.

Birds circling overhead. Carrion eaters. Hundreds of alternate universes where Bella rots in the ground.

NO.

I can feel the fight brewing inside of her. Her cheeks, previously pale, are blooming pink as her anger climbs. The mercury between us rising with her temper.

That's right. Show me you're alive, Bella. Wake me. Wake me from this nightmare. But not with soothing words, not this time. Wake me with fire. Wake me with my own rage. Return it.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I would have. I tried."

"Like hell you did. _'Edward, I had cancer'_– it's not that difficult." I quell the tremor in my voice by giving it the hateful tone she knows so well.

Bella doesn't cower. She gets right up in my face, like she always fucking does.

"You're a fucking asshole, Edward Cullen. '_Bella - Maybe you can't hold the line in the T&A department.' _It's not that fucking easy, you piece of shit. To be… _this_. You were right. I DO look malnourished, I have these huge circles under my eyes-"

"You gave me that moment back, remember? Christmas Fucking EVE. I told you it wouldn't change shit, but _you_ persisted."

Her face is obstinate, lips pursed, eyes tight. She knows I'm right and she stands in a sharpening spotlight of hypocrisy.

"You are such a fucking liar, Bella. All this time you _appreciated my honesty_ while giving me none of your own!"

"I'm sorry I don't handle my disclosures to your liking. You've had I-don't-know-how-many lovers in your life, I've only had two."

"Irrelevant."

She shakes her head at me. "You can only say that because it's so easy for you. You know, you're not the only one who suffers! But you wrap yourself up in some kind of personal hell, and everyone else's feelings don't mean anything. I should have told you – okay? You're right about that. And you should have treated me with decency-"

All I feel is my fist. "You've deceived me for months – and now you ask ME for decency?"

"I just…"

"You just… what? Decided that this was incidental? This is not incidental!" My voice climbs as hers sinks.

"I know it's not." Her eyes are lambent against the burn etched around her temples.

"You don't hide something like this. Not from someone who you want to quote-unquote climb your fucking ladder. You didn't tell me your fucking ladder was broken."

"I'm not going to hold you to that." Her shoulders are curved forward around her shielding arms, her voice lame.

Sick to my stomach, a churning brew of anger and regret, I grasp frantically after the words, but I can't get them back. Fuck it.

"Of course you're not. Because now _I'm_a fucking prick – right? Because I think you should've told me? Should've given me the option for whether or not I wanted to fall in love with someone like you? It's too late. It's fucking done!"

Her eyes dart up to mine. Her mouth opens, then closes. "You… love me?"

"Pretty fucking pathetic, huh? But I thought I knew you. I don't. I don't know who the fuck you are, Isabella Swan."

"I'm the same person I was-"

"No. You're not."

And before I know it, I'm out the door, the slam sending it back on its hinges. I find Alice and tell her to get that girl the fuck home. And then I'm out.

But not before I put my fist into Mike Newton's ugly face.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I was once shown a video of an Al Queda hostage getting his throat slowly cut with a dull blade. Blood blurted out of the man's neck, in time with the staggering final sentences of his heart. I wanted to kill after that. I wanted to kill people. I did kill people.

That was why they showed us the video. Grainy and shaky, recorded death with a soundtrack of warbled warcries. Behind the execution sat more hostages, their blindfolds lifted so they could witness their future, pure terror visible there.

This is what's out there.

This is what must be inside of Bella Swan. Behind her grace and giving. Pure terror. She knows her future. She saw it when her mom died.

You'd never know it. I never knew it.

I stretch my fingers wide and then curl them, stiff from the contact with Newton's skull, back into a shaky fist. Stretch and flex, and wrap them around the neck of the bottle.

The Sound is crowded with boats - yachts and schooners twinkling merrily in the vast darkness. I watch them bob and sparkle from the lofty heights of my condo. Tiny people celebrating their tiny little New Year's Eve. People who have it all figured out. Complete people.

I see the vast nothing of my life, marching on, going forward. I don't want it. Not any of it. Not without Bella.

My fucking mouth. My fucking temper.

Bella. Feeding fuel into my fire with her every word. Drawing out sparks, letting me immolate myself in self-righteous bullshit. Fuck.

Isabella fucking Swan.

Did her defiance just happen to match mine, or did she know that I needed it? With Bella – there is no knowing. Because, like in other dreams, she knows how to reach past my barriers and find my heart. She gives. She gives and gives.

Even if it breaks her open. Even if… it kills her.

No. NO.

Of course her anger was real. I forced her to show me. I flushed her from her hiding place, tagging with my hands – even after she called a time-out.

Because that is my first instinct. Always. Solve the problem. I should've clocked Mike first. That's what I should have done. Then I could have approached Bella with my initial anger slaked. I might… have… handled it better.

How would I have handled it better? The anxiety that crippled me as I felt her scar continues to freeze me from the inside out. The imagery won't be banished. I've been fruitlessly trying to block it, trying to combat the chill with the fire of alcohol. All I accomplish is a desperate impotence.

This is why she kept pushing me away. This is why. This is why she's alone. This is why she should have said no to me.

The way she sits. Her leg pulled in to her chest.

The way she sleeps, with one arm tucked protectively over her missing breast.

Her hair. How she pulls it forward. Her impossible blindness to her appeal, a direct reflection of her self-image. Her heart, so big and genuine, so worthy. God, I love her heart. I loved her courage before I even knew exactly how brave she really is.

"_I have to live in this body... long after you are done with it."_

I chug straight from the bottle. Why didn't she just tell me... why?

Fuck. Why would she? When should she have told me?

Through the haze of time trampled underneath my daily misery I hear her voice. Her message to me after that first night. She said she needed to tell me something, and it was important. I didn't call her back. Because I was indulging in my own self-torture. Thinking I was the only one. The only one scraped deep and left damaged.

Blind and foolish. More. Irresponsibly so.

Dangerously so. Justifying my actions. Thinking Bella could handle anything, without even giving her the chance, the decency she deserved, the opportunity to open to me.

And later, after I… fuck. Why did she pursue me after I fucked Irina? After I did the one thing she asked me to apologize for – handing her the water bottle like she meant nothing to me. Because she saw through me?

Maybe.

I want to go back. That's who needs to be punched. Me. My past self. My selfish, self-consumed, unseeing past self.

All the while… that whole time. That whole time she was keeping this secret. When she spoke of cancers changing her life, a swan in a cage that will never fly south for the winter, she just has to endure it, like the tree. That was the truth trying to come out. If only I had pushed. If only I had listened.

All her riddles. The punch line, for her, is cancer.

The night sky explodes into fireworks and I take a step back from the window.

No one gets out of here alive.

I watch the sparks melt towards their reflection before a new cacophony of light grips the sky.

Midnight. A new year. The days of 2011 shredded in my wake, fucked confetti floating into yesterdays I can never get back. No time-travel, no do-overs. You move forward. _Zindagi Migzara._ Life goes on. Because you have no choice. March on, Marine. March to your death.

Everyone has a death sentence. Everyone is condemned. Everyone dies. Some of us go early, some of us get sentenced to life, and we get to watch others die around us.

I let the scotch burn through me as I check my phone again and AGAIN punch in her number. It goes straight to voicemail. Again.

Talk to me. Let me talk to you. Let me hold you.

I want to go to her.

But I can't. I fucked that opportunity, like I do everything. I turned it to shit.

I turn from the explosions lighting up my empty condo and stagger to the liquor cabinet. I open it, just staring in. I pull out two bottles and they clunk, full and heavy, to the counter. I slowly uncap and empty them into the sink, the amber liquid swirling down the drain.

I swallow around the knot of fear in my neck.

I reach for another bottle, and like the fucking coward I am, I drink from it.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

From the bottom of some immense ocean I can hear the chirp of my phone. It fades out, only to fade back in an unknown amount of time later.

And then again.

_Rinnnnng. Rinnnng. _

Where am I?

Who fucking cares. That's where I am.

I go back there; the only thing reaching me is the slight but steady nausea starting to ripple through me. It must be the weight of this ocean, pressing me down and rolling over me. Wave after wave.

Riley's ocean. Bella's.

Bella.

Bella had cancer.

My accelerated pulse pumps sludgy slow blood into my brain. Blowing it up like a balloon, blowing it full to bursting.

Bella had cancer.

I let the ocean roll back over me.

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I've managed to haul myself off the floor, in and out of the shower, and am pulling on a thermal when Alice lets herself into my condo with the key I gave her a couple years ago in a fugue of stupidity.

She drops her designer bag and sunglasses on the kitchen counter, eyeing the empty bottles, and says, "You wouldn't answer your phone."

"The universal symbol for _rush right over and let yourself in._"

Her face is unusually tired and she gives me a snide expression. "You must have had quite the party last night." Her glance gesturing to the bottles on the counter.

"Quite."

Her eyebrows arch. "Is it time?"

My hand shakes when I drag it over my mouth. "Probably past time. What happened last night with Bella?"

"I don't know. She was gone when I went to look for her. I don't know where she went. She isn't answering her phone. Two of a kind."

"Did anyone see her go? Jasper?"

Alice shakes her head. "Jasper was calling an ambulance for Mike Newton. He was unconscious after you hit him."

I open my mouth to say… I have no idea what, but Alice waves her hand. "He's fine. He might press charges, although I think it's more likely he won't. But he's fine. Anyway. I couldn't find Bella after that."

"How the hell did she get out of there without people seeing her? And what… did she fucking walk home?"

"I don't know, Edward. She must have slipped out during the commotion. And she probably called a cab or a friend."

I recall Bella, her high necked blouse ruined, her floor length black skirt, stretchy, clingy, sexy. No pockets, no purse. "She didn't have her phone."

Alice rolls her eyes at me as she picks up the bottles and puts them in the recycling bin. "I'm not Bella's nanny. Maybe she used a payphone."

Do those even exist anymore?

All I see in my head, over and over again, is her face when I told her I loved her. Like I handed her the moon and she just couldn't believe it. And then I took it back.

"God, I'm such an ass, Alice."

"You weren't wrong."

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it. Everyone heard. She should have told you."

My stomach turns over. "Who is everyone?"

"Ev-ry-one. Jasper wants to kill you."

"Great."

"I don't know the details of what's gone on between you two, mainly because you never talk to me… but Edward… she _lied_ to you. You were absolutely right. It's wrong to hide a deformity like that from a potential partner. I know this much. She could be under no misapprehensions about what your aim was. Everyone knew what it was. At least – in the beginning. And that's when this kind of thing should be disclosed. Right up front."

Alice's voice, offering me self-righteous soapbox validation, feels like gravel ground into an open wound. Pebbles of her presumed morality abrade nerve and exposed bone. I want to tell her to save it – but she's only echoing my own thoughts, taking my side. Coming to hover in my corner like a good little sister.

My side is Bella's. I don't want us to stand opposite each other, collecting supporters who defend our positions. I have no defense.

"I mean, no offense to her and what she's been through, but come on. She had no right to-"

"Alice. Don't."

"Don't? Come on, Edward. Please don't defend her."

I remember Bella sitting across from me at dinner, telling me she isn't whole. I remember her pushing me away at the condo, telling me she needed to tell me something.

I remember telling her that I had access to all kinds of women. And then I showed her what I meant.

And despite that, she forgave me.

I slump backwards to sit on a barstool and let my forehead rest against my palm. My sister places her small hand over my neck, rubbing. Trying to soothe me, but her touch isn't the one that I need.

My voice shakes when I finally speak. "She could've died."

Alice's tone is sympathetic but not without censure. "We all could've died. At any moment, of any day. You know that."

The refrigerator clicks on and hums quietly.

"What you mean is… she _could_die. You love her, and she could die."

"That's not what I mean."

"Fine."

"Her mother died at 46." My heart skips again.

"I didn't know that."

"She's alone out there Alice. I have to go to her. I have to… take it all back, somehow. Again."

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

Jasper's Subaru is parked in Bella's driveway. I pull the Jag in behind it and get out just as he appears at the front door, turning a key in the deadbolt. A cloth grocery bag bulges under his arm.

"Where's Bella?"

He comes slowly down the few steps and stops in front of me. "She's not here."

"No shit. Where'd she go?"

"Don't know. She took Jake and went."

"Why are you here?"

"Not your business, Cullen."

I know Bella keeps a spare over the door and that's likely the one Jasper's holding. "Give me the key."

"What kind of drugs do you think I'm on?"

I choke back my frustration. "Please."

"You're why she left. Do you have any notion of what you did?"

"Yes. I need to find her."

"I don't think she wants to see you. I don't think she wants to face anybody right now. She's running away… for a reason."

"I know. She won't answer my calls."

"I wonder why."

I drag a hand through my hair. Jasper shakes his head at me, angry disgust twisting his usually casual face. "You know, Edward, your sister has been at me all night about this. About how wrong it was for Bella to keep her mastectomy a secret. How you were completely justified in your anger. What codswallop. You need to go take a long, hard look at yourself. This isn't The Edward Cullen Show where the world revolves around you-"

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"So she lied. So what? You think it's easy for her?"

"I know it's not."

"You know jackshit about her and what she's been through."

"Because she didn't tell me," I say through clenched teeth.

"And would you have listened – if she did? If I remember correctly – all women are the same. Don't they always have some kind of babe in the woods story to tell you? Isn't that what you said, Cullen?"

"I've changed."

"Have you? It didn't sound like it to me. What I heard sounded like more of your bullshit."

"Are you done?"

"She's trying to get herself back together. Leave her alone. She deserves that much from you."

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

On The Br_Ink_ is lit up like Vegas. Neon lights glow in the window.

Sam is bent over a guy's naked back, her gloved hands busy. The shrill humming of the tattoo stops. She wipes away blood and ink with a paper towel. She won't look at me.

Leah appears out of nowhere with a paintbrush in her hand. She meets my gaze unflinchingly. "What are _you _doing here?"

"You know what I'm doing here. Where'd she go?"

"You have a lot of nerve coming in here and asking me where she is. Like I'm going to tell you."

"Leah. Please. I have to find her."

She studies my face with shrewd eyes, measuring the panic surging right underneath the surface of my skin. If I don't find her… I will go crazy. Legitimately crazy.

Leah sees it and though she doesn't soften, she does give me enough to go on.

"If you knew Bella at all, you would know where she is."

My brain races for a cool second and then I'm out the door.

How the fuck do I find one small girl in a city the size of San Francisco? I don't fucking know… but I can. I will.

Jasper won't give me the key. Fine… I will break into her fucking house.

I don't even wait until dark. I just go and kick the door open. I call a locksmith as I step into Bella's small living room.

The first thing I see is Botticelli's Venus absolving me from the opposite wall.

The classic has been defiled by pen and ink, the arms adorned, the hair darkened, the eyes… I don't recall if the original Venus had brown eyes, but this one does. Complete with a red ring at the center and a dark, nearly black limbal ring around the iris.

It's Bella. Not in feature, or even artistic rendition, but in spirit. Her soft serenity, her knowing look, her understanding eyes. Eyes that say – _I see you, I hear you. I don't hold anything against you._

My urgency is crippling, but I can't move. I'm locked in my stare. My heart leaden, my blood turned to rubies, I ache a million ways inside of each sluggish pump.

I ache for her. For her comfort and her forgiveness. To give her mine.

Venus reminds me what Bella's love feels like while suggesting in dark tones that THIS time, I may not get it. This time – might just be once too many.

I feel the desperation of all my nightmares. A culmination of all my fears. Of wandering through wastelands, Kabul, Seattle, California. I might not make it. She might cut me dead at first look.

I tear myself away.

Her bedroom is a mess. Clothes are heaped haphazardly over her bed. Her boots are shoved under that purple chair again. I go into the bathroom and open her shower. Her shampoo and conditioner are gone. Her outfit from the party lies in a wet heap on the tile floor.

_Fuck. Did she walk home in the rain? _

I pick up the damp shirt and hold it to my face, breathing her in, before I drape it over the shower curtain. I toss her skirt up there too.

I flip on the light in the other bedroom. It's mostly boxes and bookshelves. A desk. A blotter. I head for that, looking for a hotel name or anything, anything.

I find random squiggles, song tracks, page numbers with assignments, and a Christmas list. All inked in her frenetic hand. There are some crude sketches in heavy cross-hatched ball-point blue and it isn't hard to see myself there. The bow of my hair and slant of my eyebrows.

Bella doodles me.

Her laptop is gone. Her textbook, the one from Halloween, is gone. Some others sit next to her blotter. I skim the room, my eyes lingering on an open cardboard box full of plastic wrapped wigs.

She didn't buy that moonbeam wig to fuck with me. She already had it. It was all right in front of my face. I curl my sore fingers into a fist and release them.

And then again.

I peruse her bookshelves. This girl reads a lot. In addition to the piles of books in her bedroom her bookshelves are choked with them, all kinds. Classics, romances, mysteries. Even kid's books. My eyes land on one with a green spine, the tips fraying with age and I slide it out.

_The Giving Tree_

I don't open it. I don't want to see. I slide it back into its spot.

The larger bottom shelf is home to thick pleather bound albums. Pictures. Curious, I pull out a photo album and flip through it.

Leah and Sam, Jasper. Jake. Her dad, his small smile under his mustache. An older Quileute woman with Leah's dark eyes. Bella took these pictures. Her eye is apparent in every shot. The world she sees.

I want the world from her point of view, but more than that, I want her face. I want to see her smile. Her big, _I'm alive_ smile.

I turn the page and there she is, standing on a dock surrounded by the summer streaked green of fir and spruce and still lake water. She's wearing a white two-piece, almost exactly as I imagined it when I thought of her running down a Costa Rican beach. I look at her tattoos with new eyes. The angle of the tree inked across her chest on the right side. The sun is bouncing off her dark hair. She's shading her eyes, pointing at something and laughing. I wish I knew what.

She's so beautiful. Radiant. Made of rainbow vitality.

_Why didn't you tell me?_

I pull the next album out. _Elementary, my dear _is lettered in gold on the front cover. I open it and find school photos mixed in with snapshots.

She can't be more than seven in the first picture, smiling a huge gap-toothed grin. Next to her is a skinny boy with bright blond hair. Both are holding their hands toward the camera, fingers cupped carefully to keep in two small turtles, one balanced on each of their palms. She looks at the turtles. He looks at her.

I flip the pages and watch the two of them grow older - in Little League uniforms, eating pizza, waving from a Ferris wheel. Bella with her freckles jumping off her cheeks. The boy, his hair darkening as he ages. Grubby kids giving each other rabbit ears or posing theatrically for the camera. I look long at one photo, she's perched on Santa's knee giving the camera an _I'm too old for this _expression. The boy is at her feet looking up at her.

_I know how you feel, buddy._

The last page is a swim meet. Bella stands on the launching board adjusting her hair under her red and gold swim cap, her matching swimsuit showing off a long swimmers build, still healthy and bearing not a single tattoo.

In the final photo she's wrapped in a big beach towel, the sandy haired boy-becoming-a-man stands next to her with his hands painfully stuffed in his pockets.

I feel a pang of jealousy. _Who is this kid?_

I pull the cellophane back and carefully lift out the photo, it separates reluctantly from the glue, and I flip it over looking for the date. For a name.

_Bella and Dmitri – April 2000_

No last name… fucking sonofabitch.

I pull out another album. I open it and sit down hard.

Bella in the hospital. She's not smiling here. The green that surrounds her is the flat sickly green of hospital walls and blankets. Her eyes are huge dark circles in her pale face. She's holding a bear. A tattery old thing that looks like Jake got to it. A strange looking man with an outdated haircut is pulling her into his suede jacket for a hug. Phil? I pull back the protective plastic and peel the photo gently from the page and flip it over. Nothing. No names, no dates.

I put the photo back and flip the page. My heart thuds to a stop. It's a memorial, flowers bedeck every surface and all the attendees are in dark shades of black and purple. I flip the thick cardboard pages until I find one of Bella, her face in shadow under a large brimmed hat. The lanky boy with dirty blond hair, Dmitri, is bent in to her ear with a black clad arm holding her up. It's the only picture of her face in the memorial set, and although I can only see her mouth, I can tell she's crying.

Her mom. Fuck.

Next is just scenery. The Golden Gate Bridge. AT&T Park. Lombard Street. The San Francisco Bay, some restaurant, a house, a sunset.

I drag my hands over my face and fight back my panic. I need to slow down and think clearly. Bella knows people in San Francisco. She must have an address book or something. For sending out Christmas cards and other shit that girls do.

Christmas cards.

I put the album back into its gap and head into her living room, scanning the Christmas cards still perched atop her bookshelf. One shows a woman holding a newborn baby up for the camera while a man with a small smile looks down on them. Merry Christmas from the D'Agostines. Dmitri, Sarah, and Baby Kyle.

Dmitri, whoever he is, is married. Thank fuck.

I pick up another card and open it. Jackpot.

_Bella,_

_Hey you. I didn't get a Christmas card from you this year. I thought you may have sent it to the old address. We moved to San Anselmo and I forgot to let you know. Here's the address of our new place. You would love it here. I was talking to Stella and she thinks it's long past time for a visit. I know you don't get time off, but it's been too long. Maybe we can come up and see you instead? Late January, early February is wide open for us. Let me know._

_As ever,_

_Phil and Stella_

_P.S. Found this in an old box of your mom's. Thought you might like to have it. _

I remember Bella's delighted gasp on Christmas morning when she dangled the prism over her face. My eyes float again to the Venus on the wall as a heavy feeling of remorse settles on my chest.

_Why didn't you tell me then? Why didn't you save both of us from my anger? _

Her eyes forgive me again as I find new reasons to condemn myself. This cheerful little house, full of Bella and her smile, her memories, her promise. Empty. Full of a girl who has never been in love. Who refers to herself as "_this_."

Fuck.

I don't have the patience for another belabored drive down into California. I have to get there now. I pull out my phone and book the next flight from Sea-Tac to SFO. I tangle with airline after airline, all of them booked to capacity at the end of the holiday.

That's right. It's a new fucking year.

I get switched over to United. They have a red-eye with an open seat departing in a little over eight hours. Fuck. I could drive down there in almost that same length of time. I book it.

Then I call Alice.

She greets me with a derisive, "I thought about letting this go to voicemail as payback, but I'm a better person than you."

"You are."

"What do you need?"

"I'm going back out of town."

"Of course you are." Alice breathes an exaggerated sigh. "You're going after her, then?"

"I have to."

"So, you're fobbing your clients off on me again?"

"I'll make it up to you."

"I doubt that."

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

San Francisco International Airport never sleeps.

I disembark a little after four a.m. and the place is bustling with purposeful commuters, vacationers dallying between planes, and the overburdened holiday travelers trying to fold up strollers and calm kids.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and head for the bank of car rental counters, choosing the first one that doesn't have a line. I give my preference to the guy at the terminal, telling him not to put me into a piece of shit. Something that has some horses, and he puts me into a black Dodge Charger that smells like overindulgence's aftermath. But I don't care.

I quit SFO, zooming across 101 and back onto Scenic Highway 1, going north. I push the Charger over the Golden Gate, dawn breaking against the Pacific Ocean, and into the Marin Headlands, a blanket of fog tumbling over the eucalyptus clad hills.

San Anselmo is an odd little town. Half shit, half quaint. I pull into the parking lot of a rundown coffee shop to check the GPS on my phone.

And kill time.

I get a cup of coffee that tastes like reroasted dishrags and sit for an intolerable couple of hours, watching traffic get heavier out on the overcast boulevard, waiting for it to be a reasonable time to knock on the door of Phil D'Agostine and his wife Stella. A little after eight, I point the car towards the address in the card I brought from Bella's house.

I pull up behind an old but serviceable Volvo, the paint oxidizing off the hood, not unlike Bella's Rodeo. Which is nowhere to be seen. I climb out of the smoke stained interior and let the crisp morning air wipe me clean, again.

The fog off the ocean is thick here. The wet air is heavy against my jeans. They seem to soak it in as I approach the careworn wooden gate tangled in creeping vines. Its hinges protest when I push the stubborn thing in and make my way up the walk.

The house is small, stained glass windows peeking out from trailing greenery. Wind chimes and multi-colored Tibetan prayer flags hang from the eaves. Abalone shells and geodes embed the earth around the small stone porch. I knock.

I see a bespectacled eye peek out of the half moon window at the head of the door before it swings inward, and I recognize Phil from his photos. He's older now. His hair has been relieved of its mullet and bristles in graying curls around his temples. He has a crooked front tooth which he shows me when his lips part and he says, "Can I help you?"

I hope so.

"I'm looking for Bella. Is she here?"

His eyes narrow under the small rectangles of glass. "Are you what she's running from?"

She's here. She's here.

I feel the back of my neck warm with anticipation and I place a cool palm against it. "Yes. I just need to talk to her for a few minutes."

"You fly down from Seattle?"

"Yes."

"Name?"

"Edward Cullen."

"You want a cup of coffee?"

"No. Please. I just want to talk to Bella."

"She isn't here."

Fuck.

Phil's eyes sweep quickly up and down the length of me and then he pulls the door open wider. "Come inside. I want to know what happened."

And I want to punch something.

I feel like I'm so close. I have to find her. I look back over my shoulder at the Charger before turning back to Phil, the expression on his face saying _this is your only option._ I step over the threshold.

My body feels defeated. I haven't slept in nearly 24 hours and I've had way too much coffee, not enough food and no alcohol. I'm jittery and my patience is fucked.

Then I catch her scent, a jasmine whisper on a non-existent breeze. Phil can see it in my face. He smiles – showing me that defiant tooth – and nods. "You missed her by less than five minutes."

Move. The urgency that comes with self-preservation. Bella is my survival, and I'm right be-fucking-hind her. "Where?"

"Sit." He gestures to the small table where a camping mug sits with dregs of black coffee going cold in the bottom.

She just. Fucking. Sat. HERE. I drag a hand through my hair.

I guess I have to run the gauntlet. Fine.

I sit. "What do you want to know?"

He sets a steaming mug in front of me and says, "First, I'd like to know what she did to her hand."

"She broke it."

Phil gives me a corrosive stare.

"She got in a fight with her car stereo. I don't know how many rounds it went, but Bella won. The thing was toast."

He doesn't smile and his worried expression gives me a profound feeling of fear.

"Is she… she won't tell me. Has she relapsed?"

If my heart keeps choking inside me I will not make it through this day. Like in every one of my dreams where I fail. Where I pitch forward into dirt, short of my destination. Short of my salvation.

Phil goes on. "I can't imagine why she would come back down here… if she has. She has… great care, up in Seattle. But… I don't know… she only said… she wasn't ready to-"

"She's not." I interrupt. I pray. "Not that I know of, anyway."

Phil makes a noise, like clearing his throat, but it doesn't fool me. He's trying not to cry. He turns to the fridge and takes a long time getting a jar of cream which he places in front of me. "Stella won't drink that carton stuff. She skims the cream off the Strauss milk. Hope you don't mind. It's a little rich."

I pour some of it into my coffee as Phil pushes a sugar caddy in front me. "Thank you."

"Welcome."

The room is quiet a moment before Phil resumes, not looking at me, seemingly speaking to the window over the sink. Or maybe something just beyond it. "That breast… I can't help but feel like it's a ticking time bomb. The older she gets – the more Stella and I worry. And Bella. She's usually really good about emailing regularly, but the last month or so – nothing. Not even a Christmas card. That… just isn't like her."

"Is she staying here – with you – or is she in a hotel?"

Phil shakes his head at me. "If she isn't sick, and you're what she's running from, then you need to do a little bit of explaining before I tell you how to find her. I want to know why she showed up here looking like she did. I want to know that you aren't a threat to her. She hasn't said a peep about you – so you could be Jack the Ripper for all I know."

"I'm not."

He gestures for me to go on.

"I didn't know Bella had cancer until… the other day. I didn't react very well."

"Mmm. Who are you to her, exactly?"

I shake my head. "I don't know the answer to that question, but I can tell you what she is to me. She's everything. Everything."

"You two are dating?"

I shrug. I don't know the answer to that question either. It seems like such a paltry word for what lies between me and Bella.

"How did you not know?"

I give him a look he gave me earlier. "Because she didn't tell me."

"Relax, Edward. You seem very hostile right now. It makes me disinclined to trust you."

Under the table I make a fist, and then I let it go. "We were... things were going slow… For reasons … I thought were based on... I don't know. From this perspective it seems so obvious. But it wasn't. Maybe I never really saw Bella... clearly. In any case, I found out about it from someone at a party who had a sick sense of propriety. I… fuck. I felt… I… called her a liar."

Because this is The Edward Cullen Show, as Jasper put it. All I saw was my own anger. "That's why she showed up here looking _the way she did._ Because I'm… a fucking asshole. Her words."

Phil, who doesn't even know me, nods. What he asks surprises me, however. "She kept it from you – for how long?"

"It doesn't matter. Months. I had no clue. The signs were there, I suppose." My hair feels oily under my hand.

He leans forward, pressing long fingers against the table. "Look, Edward. I'm not going to try to justify why Bella didn't tell you, but I want you to think about her life, her body, from her point of view. Have you… done that? Maybe you have already-"

"I don't need to – to know that the way I reacted was out of line. Like I said – I'm not… I'm not good about controlling my mouth."

"All that tells me is that you need a better filter. Maybe you said it inappropriately, but you said what you felt. If you did that, then, well…"

"All I remember feeling is fear. And anger. But anger is-" I shake my head, "-sort of… my natural state."

"I'm surprised at that." What he means, and I can tell, is that he's surprised Bella would be interested in someone like me.

"I'm in therapy." Might as well put it all out on the table.

"Are you violent?"

Violence, inherent in me. Ingrained in me. I don't know. I don't entirely know what Phil's asking me, or how to give him an honest answer. But I do know one thing. "Not towards women."

"I don't know… how to take that."

I lock eyes with him. "I was a Marine. I've killed people. I think that qualifies me as being violent."

His face contorts into the barely disguised disgust of the peace propagandists–like he's trying not to smell something terrible–as he sits back, away from me.

I lean forward. "We can discuss the ethics of my service later. Right now you can take it on faith, that I'm not violent as a civilian, not usually, and not towards women. Not ever. So get over it."

His pinched expression makes me think he won't. I feel the tender abused flesh of my inner cheek come between my teeth again and I take a deep breath. "Bella told me you're a musician. Your brother… I don't remember his name, had a stroke."

"Henry."

"Right. I was a musician, too. Piano mostly. I can't play anymore. I have intercostal nerve damage. Do you know what that is?"

He nods.

"I was shot in Afghanistan." I draw a line with my finger over the scar on my chest, the one that matches the scar Bella wears, and I look into his gray eyes. "So if you think I need to pay for my warmongering… or whatever. I'm paying. Can we move on now?"

He looks down for a long moment before he says, "Henry's playing again. Not the speed-stuff of his youth. But mellow jazzy stuff that's actually rather good. Maybe I'm just getting old. But some of it – I like a lot."

"Your point is?"

He shrugs one shoulder, a self-conscious gesture. "Don't give up."

"I gave up a long time ago."

"Shame."

I tilt my head to the side, annoyed. My life. It's all built of shame. And anger. And regret. I breathe out. "Bella. Where is she?"

"Not yet."

I sip my coffee. It tastes like ashes. Vanilla nut flavored ashes.

"Bella… was a really special kid. Old soul, Stella would call her. She didn't know Bella then, obviously. But still, that's what she would have called her. She was wise for her years and courageous. Not with the presumed immortality of some kids. You know… kids who don't know fear. Bella knew it. She just didn't let her fears keep her from… anything. She was capable and thoughtful and… usually, pretty honest. She got in her fair share of trouble, sure. And sometimes she lied about it. She hid her report card once – not for grades, but because it showed her absences. She had ditched school a few times – went to day games over at PacBell. I don't know why she was worried, Queenie, uh – her mom, didn't care. Anyway… that was her last good report card. Bella didn't graduate. I guess you know that now."

I shake my head.

"Well, you know why. Are you hungry?"

I shake my head again, but Phil gets up and pulls a homemade coffee cake out of the fridge. He fetches a motley crew of plates and silverware and plunks them down on the table. He pulls off the cover and cuts me a piece. "Stella made this yesterday. She's working today. Which is a good thing, because if she were here – you wouldn't be."

I give a resigned nod and rock back in my chair, pressing my spine to the wood behind me.

"So, Bella didn't graduate. She didn't get accepted to Stanford or anywhere else. She moved to Seattle with her dad. The day she left here… let's just say, it broke my heart, how defeated she looked. Last night when she knocked – I was looking at the same girl. Understand something, Edward. Bella's tough, but fragile. She shouldn't be worn down like that. There are a lot of studies out there linking mental health with physical…" he waves me off, even though I haven't moved. "Another good reason Stella isn't here. She would absolutely talk you blue in the face about it. About the statistics of stress and cancer, it would start there. Then it would be about chakra alignment and crystal-therapy."

My eyebrows go up, but I don't argue with him.

"Maybe you don't believe my hippie-mumbo-jumbo. I don't care. My point is, Bella's a survivor, a fighter. But she has to be careful. The people who love her have to be careful with her. If you love her, you need to put your anger in the backseat. If you love her, you will. Because you're a man, and you can. It doesn't matter that you aren't 'violent towards women' – if you treat Bella with disregard, that's the same as violence. Worse maybe. I don't know. And I don't know you. It wouldn't matter if I did. I would still tell you – she's too good for you. Judging by the look on your face, I think maybe you already know that."

My cheek bleeds under the clench of my teeth, remembering the way I forced her shirt open. Remembering the way I left her. "I do."

"And on that note. And in all fairness, she shouldn't have kept it from you. You were probably right to be angry. This is why I ask you to consider it from her point of view. What do you think usually happens when she tells a guy about her mastectomy? What would you have done?"

"Depends on when she told me."

Phil nods. "Early... let's say, first date? First kiss?"

The Halloween party. Bella's hot, hot mouth. God, how I wanted her. Would I have felt the same – if I knew? I honestly don't know. It's something I will never know, because I cannot remember her or that moment without the feelings I have for her now. The immensity of what I feel skews my past self.

"How many second dates do you think Bella goes on?"

Considering she's slept with two men in her life, I would put that number pretty low.

I arch my eyebrow, waiting for Phil to go on.

"The question's rhetorical, Edward. I don't know the answer. Bella doesn't talk to me about it. She dated a guy for a while, a couple of years ago – do you know about him?"

"I know enough."

"The thing is, like Bella with her hidden report card all those years ago, once you put off telling something, the lie gets bigger inside of you. You get to a point where you aren't just dealing with the revelation; you also have to face the music of your own secrecy. The shame braids itself in with the lie. And maybe she was afraid to lose you."

"She wouldn't have lost me. Not after... not after a certain point. Not for that."

"How was she to know when that certain point had been reached?"

How indeed? Of course she would think I would leave. She knows me well enough. But what she doesn't know is that her mastectomy means nothing to me. Nothing, save for the understanding that Bella fought her own war. I had the benefit of fighting mine externally. Her battle is fought inside her body. Without her consent.

"Do you love her?"

The grain in the table waves and I shut my eyes against it. "Fundamentally."

"Does she know?"

"I don't... I don't think so."

"Then go explain. She's at Point Reyes. Dillon Beach, I think. But maybe Drake. You have GPS?"

"I know where it is." I just drove past it a week ago. I'm on my feet and headed for the door when I hear Phil behind me.

"Edward?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm a peace loving man, a pacifist... I admit it. But... you hurt that girl again... and I will make sure Charlie kills you and buries you in a shallow grave. Kapeesh?"

**…**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I glide the Charger to a stop in the empty space next to Bella's battered Isuzu. The sight of it has me breaking from the confines of the car and moving swiftly to the trail leading down to the shore, my hands stuffed in my pockets. Like Dmitri D'Agostine in the picture of Bella's swim meet. And I realize, there's no way that boy wasn't in love with Bella. I wonder if he was the first.

The gale off the ocean slices through my layers, through my skin. I suck some of it into my lungs, trying to blow away my apprehension. I reach the crest and look down on the cove, bitten round out of the coast.

I see Jake first. Wet and pouncing in and out of the water, snapping his jaws at clusters of foam, staring down as the ocean recedes around his paws. Then he charges up out of the water, making a jagged circle around Bella and plunging back in.

Bella.

I've never seen Bella amble before, but that is definitely what she's doing. Her back is to me and she stoops to collect something from the sand. She studies it, her head bent, before chucking it out to sea with a flimsy left handed toss.

The wind has caught her hair, pushing it off her shoulders and into the air. I can see her neck. She looks small from here, getting smaller, as she slowly walks away from me.

I start down the slope.

I've made a lot of short journeys in my life, the distance of a few meters stretched into a mile by my own mind. From me to Umar, under fire from my Hilux to the Humvee, from the couch of my despair to a condo down the block. From my Jag into the office of Dr. Biers.

From the knoll overlooking Dillon Beach down to Isabella is the first one where I really prayed. Just words, repeated, a mantra of _please_inside my own head.

My boots sink into the wet sand, leaving big oblong prints next to her smaller ones. Our matched steps decorated with a peppering of paw prints.

Jake's head comes up, his snout dripping, he barks. It's his friendly hello bark, and Bella stills, but she doesn't turn around. Jake barrels towards me, tongue lolling.

"Down." Jake sits at my feet, squirming with enthusiasm. Then he gives me a big "Arroooo," his shaggy neck stretched long as he points his face to the clouds overhead.

I run my fingers over his ruff and look up. Finally, I see her face. Her cheeks are pink from the air, and surprise has widened her eyes.

She waits for me to close the distance between us. She's wearing her Stanford sweatshirt. Her brown eyes look silver against the bruised sky. Her mouth is a tormented red against her pale skin, constellations of faded freckles point the way.

"What are you doing here?" Her voice is a swamp of defeat and fatigue. I wade through it with clumsy hands and pull her into me. She comes, and I cradle her head against my heart, my fingers tangling in her mess of hair.

I breathe, my lungs filling with the relief of air, oxygen like a steady narcotic bleeding into me. I have her.

I have her.

I made it this time. I got here in time. I have her.

I hold her.

"Tell me, Bella," I say, but the hungry surf eats my quiet words.

She pulls back slightly, taking her warmth from me, looking at me with eyes like big mirrors. "Tell you – what?"

She did hear me.

"What you needed to tell me. I'm listening."

Her bewildered eyes dart between mine and then they sharpen. She nods, understanding, as she always does. I am giving her the chance to remake it. To time-travel. I am handing her some Christmas Eve magic.

She takes it.

"Edward – I had cancer."

My throat closes as my gaze loosens, Bella blurring before me. I smile at her and give her a little nudge.

She gives me her sheepish smile. "It wasn't that difficult."

"You aren't done yet." I say. "What else?"

Her lip comes between her teeth and then slides slowly out. "I had to have a mastectomy when I was 17. Right before my mother died. I…"

She drifts off as her eyes trace the path of the tear down my cheek. Her hand comes up as if to wipe it away, but stops, suspended in the air with her uncertainty. I cup it and press it into my face. My eyes close at her touch.

"Edward?"

She reappears before me as I open my eyes.

"Bella. Listen to me." I move her hand from my face and press it into my chest, into my heart, hoping she remembers saying a slight variation of these words in an ill-lit nightclub. "I've only ever loved two people in my life. You're the third. Get used to it."

Her other hand comes between us and she hides her face in her palms. Her shoulders quake and I tighten my hold. She cries.

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><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>

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><p>AN:

All I want to say is thank you. To all my readers. For being wonderful. For being thoughtful. For being here reading.

And to these ladies who make this story, and me, better:

Dragonfly336

BelieveItOrNot

Songster51

ShellisThimbles

DreaminginNorweigen

Moirae


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.******

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

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><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

No more mysteries, baby ...  
>No more secrets, no more clues ...<p>

~Midnight in Harlem, Tedeschi Trucks Band

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><p>***BPOV***<p>

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><p>It's warm here. Buried in the cotton of his shirt, his arms wrapped around me—solidity all around me. Strength. Edward.<p>

He gave me a do-over. He gave himself a do-over. I don't know if it's right this time. I don't know if it erases my silence, my duplicity, or his aggression. So much has transpired and it isn't just words this time. It's taking back actions. It's trying to negate who we are. I understand, now, what he meant when he said it can't be taken back. We can't … not be … ourselves.

He's a runner, and I'm a hider.

He's a man, a warrior, and an alcoholic. He's temperamental and hard. But …

He's mostly honest.

And often kind.

His capacity for brutality, for disregard, throws into stark contrast the moments when he's gentle. When he laughs. When his eyes laugh. When he reaches for me in tenderness.

And me. I'm just tired of these games and this body. So endlessly sick of myself. I've relived the last few months of my life, the last few days, over and over again. Until all I'm left with is a mural of my own stupidity. My own deceit. My cowardice and my crushed hopes.

Every action. Every word. All of it compounds how foolish I feel. How easily I can lose myself when a man wants me. How easily I am lost when a man who had me has abandoned any iota of care he may have once felt for me. How the fraternity of men is impenetrable. I have no weapons to fight it.

"Bella. I'm so, so sorry. So blind. So stupid. So sorry." He's murmuring into my hair. I can smell the sharp tang of his sweat mixed with traces of his aftershave, even though his face is shadowed with new beard. I can smell the ocean—violent, ripe—through the comfortable smell of flannel and the hint of alcoholic ketones. It smells good.

It smells like Edward.

I'm afraid to pull away. I'm done crying. I think. But I don't want him to see me, the wreck that I am. I've been in tears several times since that glass broke against the floor. Since I looked up to see Edward, an angry maelstrom of hair and hatred, with Mike's features clarifying into sharp focus next to him.

Since the dread of seeing Edward step toward Mike, not a man, not in that moment. What I saw was something closer to an animal, the fight was all over him. But then he stopped, his eyes finding me first, a mere second before his hands were on me. I was sure the whole room could hear the thunder of my heart. My blood was pounding in my ears and I could barely walk.

But Edward's hand on my arm was gentle. It occurred to me that he was leading me away so that we could talk, so that he could wrap his arms around me, but then the door closed behind us and I knew better.

I tried to tell myself I knew it was coming, that it didn't matter.

But those words didn't work. I told myself not to cry, that it was Edward and he wasn't worth anything but my anger. I tried to summon the image of Irina to fuel my fight, but she quickly crumpled into all the reasons I should never have gotten involved with him.

Stupid girl.

I tried to hold myself aloof and composed when I slipped out of the room, several people turned to look at me, the rest formed a circle around Mike. I thought about going to him—but then everyone would see. My shirt held closed, my soul held open.

I found the staircase and the front door and the heavy rain outside.

I walked for what felt like forever. Until even my bones were drenched and the shiver running through me blotted out all my other miseries. Until I was standing in front of a small police station—lit late, cops on duty, ready to stamp out New Year's shenanigans gone awry.

"My name is Bella Swan. Charlie Swan is my dad. Can you radio him for me?"

The desk officer, a hardened woman with beautiful cocoa skin and fine gold rimmed glasses, had looked intently at me. "Have you been assaulted, honey?"

I was holding my shirt closed, my jacket still somewhere in Palace de Cullen. My make up was a disaster. When I caught sight of myself in a mirror later, I really just wished I hadn't.

I just need my dad, I had told her.

I sat frozen and dripping on a hard plastic chair while she, eyeing me cautiously, picked up her phone and dialed out.

"Bethanie? Hi, Margie Hastings at Precinct 12. Do you know where Officer Swan is this evening? Mmmm. Yes. Do you have his DC? Thank you. No—I just need to speak with him. Yes. Yes. Okay. Thank you."

She found him, their conversation short and urgent. I think she was trying to impress upon him that he needed to hurry over, without making him worry.

I watched the door. Waiting. Trying not to cry.

At some point Officer Hastings wrapped a rough horse blanket around me, rubbing my arms up and down, chafing raw the skin under the scratchy fabric, looking in my eyes, her face worried.

"I'm not in shock," I told her. "I'm okay."

"Mmmhmmm." It was delivered with evident disbelief.

She went back to her desk, shuffled some papers around, but her attention kept drifting back to me.

When the thick beam of headlights shone in through the doors, I heard her relieved sigh, quick and sharp.

I don't ever want to see that look on my dad's face again.

It reminded me of Edward. There was rage there. And fear.

But unlike Edward, my dad can control his emotions.

He guided me into the cruiser, my blanket shifted to my lap, my shirt falling open when I buckled my seatbelt. I closed it, pinching the sides together, knowing Charlie was hovering. Knowing that I had to start explaining or he would march me right back into the station to file a report.

"Take me home, Dad. Please."

The passenger door of the cruiser door shut gently, emphasizing his thinly maintained control. He rounded the vehicle and slid into his seat but didn't reach to turn the engine over.

"Bella." He stopped, his mustache twitching. "Bella. I need something from you right now, before we move an inch. I need to know what happened to your shirt. I need to know if I need to take you to a hospital. This isn't me asking you as your dad. This is me asking you as a cop."

"I don't need a hospital. I just need to go home."

We looked at each other for a long while. I wondered if my face looked convincing, if my words were enough. If he trusted that I would tell him the truth. I wanted him to, even as I lied.

"I did this to myself. I … I ripped my shirt."

"_You_ did?"

"It's … it's over, Dad. I know you don't like him-"

"Cullen?"

"Edward. Yes."

"Sonofabitch."

Charlie's anger is rare and frightening. I didn't like it. I'm not used to it, and I'd had enough testosterone fueled displays for one day. I smoothed my voice.

"Please just take me home, Charlie? Okay?"

He pulled me into his arms. We stayed that way for an extended moment, his badge pressing into my temple.

"Okay," he finally said. And he started the car.

Neither of us said anything until we turned onto my street.

"I'm going to go visit Phil and Stella. I need to get away … for awhile."

He glided the cruiser in behind my Rodeo, not breaking his silence.

"I'll call you when I get there."

"You're leaving tonight?"

"Yeah. Now. I just need to throw a bag together."

He killed the engine. "No. You can leave in the morning, but I don't want you driving right now."

"I'm a grown woman-"

"And I'm a cop. And I will pull you over as soon as that car leaves this driveway."

I panicked quietly. I had to get out of there. I felt it, the urgency itching at me, compelling me to leave Seattle. Get far, far ... far away. Far enough to breathe and grieve.

"You need to sleep, Bella-"

I snorted.

"And you've been drinking. You're upset—I don't want you losing control of your vehicle."

He gestured to the storm drumming down outside the window. "This is a recipe for roadkill. I've scraped enough people off the highway to know it. You aren't leaving."

Charlie's cop car didn't leave my driveway that night. Not until the wee hours.

Inside, he found my phone and turned it off, found the coffeemaker and turned it on. Then he planted himself on my couch. I changed and sat with him. We watched TV, Comedy Central stand-up mostly, but neither of us laughed.

By the time he got called to the scene of a B&E around 3:45 AM, I was so exhausted from trying to keep my tears at bay that I waved him off.

I was drifting into a doze when I felt the air in the room shift. I looked up.

"Just me, B. Go back to sleep."

"Did Charlie call you?"

"No. Mom did. I'm supposed to make sure you sleep. Although, why they sent me over here to wake you up and tell you that … I don't know. Come on. Let's move to the bedroom—okay?"

Leah, in flannel jammies, guided me to my bedroom and we curled into each other. The flat, cool bed felt divine after trying to rest my head against the arm of the couch. Not uncomfortable—not at first, but attempting to sleep there just muddled my head with more thoughts of Edward.

Leah's arms and her scent, the cool pillow and my overwhelming fatigue, swirled together into an early morning fog of slumber induced comfort. I was gone.

I dreamed of sand and dunes and a brilliant sun. And a child with messy hair and moss-green eyes. He taunted me from afar, calling me half-caste, untouchable. Telling me the disease of my rank was all over me. I tried to explain, although, what I said I don't know. He spit on me and I reached for him, trying to push his face into the sand, but he slipped through my fingers.

After his image vanished, only then did I realize it had been Edward.

I woke up tainted by the dream. Just like I had so many months ago.

I woke to the remembrance that Edward wanted nothing to do with me. That he felt betrayed. Maybe just disgusted, and the betrayal was a masterful cover. He certainly looked it, when his hands found me under my bra, his eyes closed like he couldn't bear to look at me. For a fleeting moment I thought he might actually throw up, as pale as he became.

I'd never actually sickened someone before. When I divulge, it usually just makes them look away, makes it hard for them to find my eyes again.

I reached out and ran my fingers over Leah's thick braid.

It disappeared under her as she rolled to me.

"What happened?"

I told her. She listened. Then she helped me pack.

"How long are you going to be gone?"

"I don't know, Lee. Maybe a week or two?"

"What about your job?"

My heart stammered and splashed into my stomach. "I don't think I can go back there."

"You can't just quit."

"I don't know. I just. The thought of having to … go there. I can't."

Leah didn't nag me or chastise me. She loaded me up, hugged me fiercely, and told me to be safe. Then she waved from her car and made the call me gesture, with her pinky at her mouth, her thumb stretched to her ear.

I drove. Tracing Edward's own flight south—which I tried not to think about. I tried not to cry, but my body betrayed me. Over and over again. You think I'd be used to it by now. My betrayer body. Cooking up cancer against my will, brewing tears in the cavern of my chest.

Edward fucking Cullen.

I had the constant reminder of his smile—right there in the plastic paneling of my dash. Still new and unblemished, the display bright, the sound full. The stereo was a reminder of the way he looked that day, when I peered down at him from the warmth of his office.

I felt like I should take it out and give it back. It probably makes him feel foolish that he bought such a lavish gift for me.

I told myself my pity party was reprehensible. That it was _my_ stereo. I should consider it a trade for the shirt he ruined. But those thoughts bore all the force of a ladybug wing. The snowball of my self pity was rolling down the mountain, not to be stopped until it depleted its momentum, or until it hit an immovable object, exploding into nothing but powder.

My mind turned to my fridge full of food. Stuff I never buy, stuff I bought hopefully—for Edward—making me feel like a complete ass. Left to rot there.

I pressed the button to turn on my phone and called Jasper.

"Hey, Bells."

"Yo."

"Yo, indeed. Where are you? I've been calling."

"I know. I turned my phone off. Sorry."

"Don't apologize. I was just starting to get worried. You okay?"

I sighed. "Yeah. I'm headed out of town. Actually, I already left. Look—I um … have some stuff in my fridge, I was wondering if you would go get it so it doesn't spoil."

"Anything good? I'm not driving all the way out there to pick up mung beans or some sprouted shit."

I laughed. It felt good. "No. I mean … yes … that stuff is in there—but I'll have Sue come get that. Before she gets there I need you to get the half and half and some pork chops. And there's a tri-tip in there, too. And a loaf of sourdough."

"A tri-tip you say? Well … that changes things."

"Hey … will you take the oatmeal out of the cupboard, too? There's a grocery bag in the pantry you can use."

"No problem. I don't really like oatmeal, though."

"Yeah, I know. Just get it out of there before I get a lecture. You can toss it for all I care." I felt the tears threatening and wanted to end the call.

"Bells. Look. I … I feel like an asshole for the part I've played in this. I'm just …" He exhales sharply. "Just so sorry … that you got messed up with these people. These … fucking heartless blueblood-"

"It's not your fault, Jazz."

"Sure it was. Some of it anyway. I shouldn't have… passed on those tags. I told you not to tell him. I told you … not to. I'm just sick about it. All of it."

"Don't be. This is absolutely not your fault. Not at all. Kay?"

He didn't say anything so I went on.

"I'm alright. Or … I will be. I just need some time to … figure some things out. You know?"

"Bella, do you … love him?"

There was a proverbial knife sticking from my chest, piercing me with each breath. That question acted as twist to the tang, swiveling the blade. Do I love him? What kind of question was that?

"Please. Please don't ask me that right now, Jasper."

When I ended the call, the voicemail icon told me I had nine messages. I selected the first one, the one with a timestamp of 12:58AM and put it on speakerphone.

"_Goddamn it Bella. Answer your goddamn phone."_

His voice made my heart race, so I hit END and contemplated deleting the rest of his messages. But I couldn't do it. Maybe … one day. I would listen to them. And laugh.

Or at least … not cry.

And then my phone rang, and I was looking at his face. His angry Allstate face.

DECLINE.

I turned my phone back off.

I couldn't rehash or hear apologies or excuses. Or further reasons why I suck. I didn't want to hear his voice or see his face.

And now I'm in his arms.

I don't know what happens now. What kind of talk we're going to have. What kind of walk we take off this beach. Partially because I don't even know how I feel. Hours and miles have passed, and all I feel is broken.

I feel like I should have anger somewhere in my brain. I feel like I should be indignantly outraged. But I'm not. And I can't make myself be. I can't give energy to something I just don't feel.

I pitch against him. Exhausted. He pushes me back and looks into my face. His eyes are a universe, a green and gold galaxy. Vast, meaningful. Hesitant. He looks worn. The slight lines around his eyes have never seemed so prominent. He looks tired. He looks like how I feel. Like the marathon ran me.

Like I've been awake and running for a million years.

He gives me a little half smile and puts his hand on my shoulder. The gesture feels odd, like he's asserting distance between us. Like he's trying to downplay the intimacy of a moment ago.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I'm not … angry with you. You know that? Please tell me you do."

I press a cool hand against my forehead. "You certainly seemed angry."

"I know. And I understand if you're … fucking pissed at me."

I look into the sand, trying to figure out exactly how I feel. How I felt when we had our confrontation. And how I feel now. And all the seconds in between. Heartbroken, hopeless. Tired. Endlessly tired.

Resigned.

To my lot.

I came here to get away. To recover. How do I do that when Edward is right in front of me, asking me if I'm pissed? I don't know yet. I'm too fucking drained.

I take a deep breath—my lungs feel thin, worn down, unsound—and let it out.

"I'm not … pissed at you. I, honestly … don't know how I feel right now." I look out to the ocean and give him my honesty. "It's not easy for me … you being here."

"I had to come." I look up into his face, seeing relief and his half smile. That face. When did it become more familiar than beautiful?

My mind is an unstable place. He had to come? Why? Because he loves me? He says he's loved two people. One of them was Umar. He's dead. The other? Alice, maybe. Or maybe Riley.

The warmth leeches out of my body into the sand.

He's loved two people in his life. But he's never been in love. And now, he loves me.

But he's not IN love with me.

Of course. Of course he's not.

He'll probably say it's the deception, so like that of Rosalie. So like that of his mother. And that may be true, in part. He may even tell me that he holds our friendship too dear. That he doesn't want sex to ruin it.

That's … that's okay. That's probably better. I don't want to sleep with him anyway. I don't want a future with an alcoholic brute.

That's all bullshit.

For some incomprehensible reason… maybe even _because_ of his harshness, I love him. I don't know when or how it happened. Maybe it was born in desperation and fed by my loneliness. Created in want and nurtured by need.

I hate that. I hate being this. I hate the consolation prize I'm about to get handed here. I hate trying to wade through my emotional turmoil on the spot, to answer the question of whether or not I can just be friends with this man.

It's funny how I didn't realize the glow burning in my blood until it turned to frost.

I just need to get this conversation over with.

I watch waves break against massive boulders sticking up out of the surf. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I'm sorry you found out … the way you did."

I shift my weight from one soggy foot to the other, my awkward embarrassment compounded.

"You want to walk, Bella?"

I don't really care, so I just say, "Sure."

We turn towards Jake, romping up-shore, and stroll, my hands clasped inside my joey pocket. The ocean air brings water to my eyes. There's some relief in that. I'm not necessarily crying. I'm just windblown. I peek at Edward out of sideways eyes. He looks pretty fucking windblown himself.

He shakes his head. "That guy. Mike Newton. Fucking tool. He had no business opening his ugly mouth."

"You hit him?"

I see Edward clench his fist. "I'm not sorry for that. He deserved it."

I shrug. "Nah. He's not a bad guy. Just -"

"Wrong. Bella. He's … nevermind."

"He's just … petty." I choke on the last word. Because I'm petty. Because Edward is, too. And I don't really want to infer any insult. I just want to move on.

"I had a dream about us on the beach," I say.

Edward repositions himself a little closer to me, his elbow brushing mine. "I remember."

"Where are you staying?"

"I just got here."

I look at him, a lock of hair freeing itself from behind my ear and getting trapped against my lips. I wipe it away. "How did you know where to find me?"

"Phil."

"Oh. Phil told you where I was?" I'm surprised at that.

"Yeah. After lecturing me."

"Hah. That's Phil."

"Nice man."

"Very."

"He loves you."

I nod. The ever growing list of people who love Bella Swan. I try to smile. I feel like pulling an Edward and running. Hiding. Again. Away from this beach. Somewhere where everyone who loves me can't find me. Dillon Beach wasn't far enough. I should have gone to Australia.

"How did you find Phil?"

He clears his throat and though his mouth is very serious, his eyes smile. From his back pocket he pulls out the Christmas card Phil sent me, curved thin from his sitting on it. The one that was in the box with the prism that used to hang in the Z. He turns his face to the sand, giving me that apologetic look from under his lashes.

I swallow. His beauty hurts, like Jasper's question. I need to get out of here. I don't know how to escape like Edward does. I only know how to be dismissed.

"How did you … oh. The key. Over the door." I nod.

"Not … not exactly." He clears his throat. "You have a new deadbolt now."

So he broke into my house. That makes me feel weird. Like the buttons that keep my shirt closed, the door that locks people out of my small piece of the world—these barriers don't mean anything to him. Because he can force them open. And for what? Just because he can?

"Why?" It's out of my mouth before I can stop it.

There goes his hand—up through his hair.

"You wouldn't answer your fucking phone. And I mean that literally, this time."

Of course he does.

Because figuratively, for us, with all our stupid analogies, would mean sex.

And I'm sure now, that either by deception or physique, I've been relegated to a sister, or an approximation thereof. At least, as usual, Edward Cullen is being straight with me.

I don't really know what to say. To let him know I understand. To get him to leave. To have this talk later. Not now. Not here in my gaping vulnerability. "I should have. I guess. Maybe then you wouldn't have had to waste your time–"

All his motion ends. I turn to him, his eyes narrow. "No."

"No?"

"Bella … I'm sorry. I can't even explain how much I mean it. I know … I know the words aren't enough."

His face is pale. I remember his intense fury after he laid hands on me. The way his eyes fell shut in disappointment.

These things can't be remade. They just have to be reconciled. You have to live and let live.

"It's … it's okay. Edward. Really."

"You don't look like it's okay."

"I'm not. But … I will be. I just need some time–"

"Time for what?" I can see a muscle in his jaw working.

"To … get over it. To … get over you."

Something in his face tells me he doesn't want to have this conversation. But he asked for my honesty. I owe it to him.

I owe it to him.

Or maybe … I _owed_ it to him. And now it's too late. Now I owe him my silence. I owe it to him to _not_ tell him that I love him. I should just alleviate his guilt and turn it all into bygones.

I can do that. I think I can. He carries too much guilt already. Better to just let it all go. Let it go and move on. I can find a way. We can be friends. Maybe. I don't know.

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>"No. Please."<p>

The words are like choking. My own throat getting in the way.

Fuck. Fuck.

This time. I might not get it. Her forgiveness.

Her eyes scan my face. Looking for something … what? My sincerity? FUCK. Panic digs its spurs in, piercing viscera. My heart stammers. I feel my neck turn to Jell-o and I point my face to the sky. It's just a haze of clouds, dark ones. Threatening. I take big manic breaths of salted air.

I force the muscles in my neck to tighten and I look down at her. She looks confused and sad. But she smiles at me. A gentle, consoling smile. Her Venus smile.

No!

How do I live my life without her?

I don't know … how. She is my world now. She IS my life.

I have to get out of here. Before my breath turns to sobs.

No. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not fucking running.

All the oxygen escapes me as I reach for her. Again.

With firm hands. Again.

Different intent, this time. Different need, this time. Not the need to see. But the need to show. The need to kiss her.

One last time.

* * *

><p>***BPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>His kiss comes out of nowhere. Hands like manacles grip me, his fingers are rigid, but his mouth is soft. It slides against mine, a whisper to a scream, and I pull back astonished.<p>

His face is stony, his jaw and brow fierce. His eyes open and petrify to solid jade. What happened here?

"Edward?"

He swallows and his hands release me. He puts them up in a gesture of surrender as he takes a step back. His lashes are clustered together with damp. Is he windblown? Or ...?

"When you say … you love me?"

I watch a sunrise bloom in his eyes. His whole face changes. Right there. Right in front of me. He takes a deep breath in and blows it out in an unstable laugh. "You think I don't want you. Is that what you think?"

He shakes his head at me, his eyes gleaming.

"I … don't know."

"Bella-Bella-Marie. Let me show you how much I love you. How much I want you. And exactly in what way."

He holds his hand out for mine.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

The sky opens overhead as we make our way back to the vehicles. I look out the side of my eyes at him, walking in big strides next to me, his hands in his pockets, his hair blown forward into his eyes. He smiles. He knows I'm looking at him.

"Are you cold?"

"A little."

He pulls me into his heat, into the hollow of his arm, into his scar. I wonder if I can really feel it against my cheek, or if I'm just imagining I can feel it.

He turns his face and kisses me, his lips lingering at my hairline, brushing back and forth. Our pace has degenerated into a mosey as we work our way through grasses stubbornly growing around driftwood. He runs his scruffy cheek over the place he kissed a moment ago. Slow and gentle pressure. Nuzzling. Edward Cullen is nuzzling me.

I let Jake up into the Isuzu and turn to him.

His eyes are luminous today against the gloom, some inner flame causing them to glow under his heavy brows. When they fall on me I feel his intensity of purpose. My heart skitters despite my long fatigue as I feel the pinprick of a drop against the part of my hair.

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>A fat raindrop explodes against Bella's upturned face and my heart flips over in my chest.<p>

"How did you get home?"

"The other night?"

"Yeah."

"My dad."

I recall Phil threatening me with Charlie's violence. It may be totally unnecessary. I may have earned the man's ire all on my own. For a brief moment, I see Bella as her dad must see her. As Phil must see her. It's humbling.

"Fuck. Your dad is going to kill me."

Bella laughs. Easy and full, and it fills me. A decadent indulgence coating me from the inside out. A thick adhesive bandage pulling the stray pieces of me back together.

"I would kill me ... if I were your dad. Fuck. I had no right to … and then to just … leave. Fuck."

"You had some right. Not much. But some."

"Not any, Bella. I really have no excuse … except that I. Panicked."

"Panicked?"

"My perception of you ... was altered. Dramatically. So … fucking fast. I had a hard time catching up."

"Yeah. That's got to be a lot to assimilate. Surprise—your ... um ... _date_ ... only has one breast."

"More like—surprise, your _date_ almost died."

Bella puts her hand on my bicep, softly squeezing, holding on to me, as her gaze ping-pongs between my eyes. "I didn't almost die. I was very far from dying."

"Cancer ..."

"I don't have it. Not right now." The breeze off the ocean, at times more, at times a brutal wind, blows her wayward hair over her face. I run my fingers down her temples to catch it, tucking it back behind her ears.

"You act like it was nothing. You forgive me like it was nothing. Like the only thing I've ever done is treat you with care. But I haven't. I've been … careless. With you. That ends, here. Now."

I need time to make up for the things I've done, I need words to exist between us in the form of a promise. I need her to accept it, but of course, she doesn't, because she's Bella and she's stubborn.

"Edward, please don't … baby me. And don't try to be someone you're not. I like you the way you are. Sometimes you're a pig. It's okay."

I laugh and lean in to her. "I'm sorry. I won't baby you. And I'll try not to make promises I don't know if I can keep."

"That'll do, pig."

"Just don't ever call me Babe."

Her laugh tinkles around mine.

"No problem there."

"Then—I think we may just stand a chance."

Her lip comes between her teeth. Her beautiful contemplation. Her graceful uncertainty. "Edward … a chance at—what? I need you to … spell it out for me. I need you to tell me-"

"Where you stand?"

"Yes. Without my shitty ladder analogy. Let's be done with that one."

I take her hand and press it to my heart. "You own it, Bella. Damaged, though it is. No more analogies. No more pretense. No more fighting. No more hiding. No more secrets. No more clues-"

"The stars are out there, we can almost see them mooooove." Her eyes close as she slaughters my favorite Tedeschi Trucks song.

"No more singing."

"But you said I own your heart."

"Your voice shatters it."

One shoulder comes up to her ear in a half shrug. "You break it, you bought it."

"Sold."

She smiles. "Okay. I'll be sure to sing only when you need penance, then."

"How about _I_ sing, and you … dance."

Her cheeks flare as her lashes fall. She looks exquisitely embarrassed. I tip her chin up.

"I love you, Bella. All of you. Like I've never loved anything. I would do anything for you. Everything I've ever done … is for you. Is that clear enough?"

She nods but says, "I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"I don't know. The future."

"Me too. Why don't we just take it a day at a time?"

"It's not going to be easy for you … to love someone like me."

I know exactly what it will be like to love someone like Bella Swan. She doesn't think I know, but I do.

It will be scary, the most frightening thing I've ever done. It will be a commitment—the most important one I've ever made. It requires me to be a better man than I thought I was capable of. I'm taking a huge gamble just thinking I have what it takes.

But I know better. If souls have mates, complements, she is mine. Mine. In so many ways. Mine. She matches me, she's marked me, she's made me whole.

She is my reflection, brighter. Better.

"Bella. You're wrong." I shake my head. "It will be so easy to love someone like you."

* * *

><p>***BPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>Edward slides into the Charger and tells me to follow him.<p>

"Where are we going?"

"There's this place in Tomales Bay I thought we might try. They rent these cottages right on the bay."

"Oh. Nicks."

"Yeah. I passed it on my way here from Phil's. Do you object?"

"Nope. I would love to go there. It's expensive, though."

He gives me a look. It's sort of an _I'm made of money_ kind of look. He backs it up when we get to Nicks Cove and he plunks his shiny Amex down on the counter with his driver's license, asking for the most expensive waterfront cottage plus pet charge.

The Bandit cottage is quaint and clean. Jake excitedly starts sniffing around the room. The heavy shroud of fog around it settling a sleepy darkness over the bed. Suddenly, I find myself bone tired. Weary in every piece of me.

Behind me, the door closes. Edward drops our bags to the chair, tosses the keys to the table, sending them skittering across it to the floor. He presses clawed fingers against his temple, his eyes skimming the room. He finds what he wants and makes for it.

The honor bar.

He clucks his tongue.

"No scotch?"

"No Asprin, either," he says as he rummages in the tray of bottles, snacks, and upgraded grooming utensils.

"What _do_ they have?"

"Nuts. Popcorn. Chocolate bars. KY. Vodka. Oooooh." He smiles and pulls out a small bottle of Maker's Mark. "Bourbon it is, then."

"Nick knows what's up."

Edward scoffs as he twists the cap off. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull off my sweater, kick off my shoes. Sand from the soles dislodges in clumps on the hardwood floor. Jake circles several times before flumping down on the floor at the foot of the bed.

I watch Edward as he downs the bourbon with only the smallest grimace.

He comes to the bed, unlacing his boots and leaving them next to mine, before climbing up and pulling me into his embrace. We sink into the masses of pillows and it feels so good I could cry. I'm reminded of children who've gone past their naptime, become emotionally unstable, throw a fit and then fall asleep on the floor. I feel brittle and breakable.

"Are you tired, Bella?"

"Yes. You?"

"Exhausted."

I curl into him easily, home in the place that is always comfortable. He presses his face against the top of my head, rubbing slightly, as his hands brush back my hair so he can look down at my face.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing, Edward. I know you're sorry."

"Every few minutes I think of something else I regret. My sorries just stack up. I have to give them to you. Whether or not you want them."

"Tell me what for then. What are you sorry for right now?"

"I'm sorry for saying that you'll look funny when you're eighty. You'll be beautiful at eighty."

"I might not… make it that-"

"You will."

I pull back from his embrace. "Edward. This is something we need to discuss. You can't give me platitudes like that. You can't live with them. Ignoring it. That won't work."

"Bella-"

"No. Having a positive attitude is one thing. But we still need to be realistic."

I feel his heart drum under my hand. "So, what is realistic? What does that mean … in years? Quantify it."

"I don't know."

"Sounds like the same shot everyone has."

"It's not though. The deck is stacked against me."

Edward brings his cheek in between his teeth and worries it, his jaw rocking subtly back and forth. I wonder how bruised that part of his body must be and I bring my hand up to still him.

"Hey. Doesn't that hurt?"

He shrugs, letting go. He can see the question in my face and he tilts his head in acquiescence. I peel the corner of his lip back from his bite and look at the pocked and ridged scar tissue where smooth gummy flesh should be.

"It's only on this side?"

He nods.

"Is this the most tormented part of your body?"

His laugh is soft and sweet, like his eyes, and he shakes his head. But he says, "Yes. It's a bad… nervous habit. I think I've done it all my life."

"I'm surprised you haven't chewed right through it."

"I'm resilient."

"So it would seem."

He yawns, and I catch a glimpse of the whitened patch I just examined. I reach for his hand and thread my fingers through his.

I saw a movie once where this teenage couple seemingly spent long hours laying in a meadow, just gazing at each other. It seemed sappy to me at the time, if not a little boring, but that is how I drift off to sleep. Just looking at Edward, just holding his hand.

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>

* * *

><p>AN: Hey-yo!

This chapter got really long so I decided to split it.

So Ch. 21 ended up being kinda short. Ch.22 is long and will go up in a couple of days. It is also going to be the final chapter. It isn't the end, though. In some form or another, either in future takes, or a sequel, I will revisit these guys. 'Cause I love em and they have more story to tell. Just not here.

I'm going to get all my end-of-story gushing out of the way:

You know who I thank by now:

**Dragonfly336** - My beloved beta. YOU.

**BelieveItOrNot** - Amazing cleaner, writer, and reader.

The rest of the DTCPS, who I write with: **ShellisThimbles**, **DreaminginNorweigen**, **Moirae**

Also, **WhatsMyNom **and** Songster51** - cheers to you two.

My HiFi ladies in the FB group - love you guys. Legit.

Thanks to all my readers for your reviews, your tweets, your love. You guys are the absolute best. Hands down. I hope you know that I appreciate all your speculation and enthusiasm. This has been a way-rad learning experience for me, and I couldn't have done it without you guys.

Also!

I am writing vintage erotica for PiqueZine. Type that in your browser and add a dot-com. Check it out and preregister for the 11/1/12 launch.

Okay - see you again soon! You bring cookies, and I will bring lemonade. You heard me, **Dreamweaver94**.


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: ****Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight and all character names. This plot belongs to the author, IReen H.******

**No copyright infringement is intended or expected. Respect.**

* * *

><p><strong>HEY!<strong>

****IMPORTANT:****

*The role of POV change will be played by **oO%Oo** during sexy times to minimize distraction.*

* * *

><p><strong>.<strong>

**.**

**.**

Hold on, stay inside this holy reality, this holy experience. Choosing to be here in  
>This body.<p>

This body holding me. It's my reminder here that I am not alone in.  
>This body.<p>

This body holding me, we are eternal.  
>All this pain is an illusion.<p>

~Parabola, Tool

* * *

><p>***EPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>Bella is already awake when my eyes open. I pull her close and press my face into her neck.<p>

"Bella."

She snuggles into me and I drink her in. Focusing on the feel of her in my arms, her face sleepy and serene, the scent of her hair - wild around her ears. I let my fingers idle around her temples, bringing the strands from her face, tucking them back; repeating the motion again and again. Watching her eyes as I barely kiss her mouth.

The gloom is settled around us, darkening the room, the bay outside barely visible through the big picture window by the bed. The fog gathers against the water, seeming to sequester us here with its foreboding opacity.

"Did you dream?"

I shake my head, our noses rubbing. "Nothing. You?"

"I sort of feel like I'm in a dream now. Like I should pinch myself to be sure we're really here. Together."

"We are."

There's a dare in her eyes when she says, "Show me."

I groan and kiss her, full and open mouthed. She kisses me back. Gentle at first, then fierce, as her hands come into the hair at the back of my neck. Our mouths slide together and apart as our limbs tangle. I go to an elbow, seeking, finding more of her.

I can breathe. I can breathe.

All I'm breathing is her. The taste of her fills me, the scent of her fells me. My hands can't wrap around all the parts of her I need to hold. My mind can't even register the completion inherent in what I can touch.

Bella. My Bella.

I drag a thumb over her cheek, she presses her face into my hand. Silken skin, pink under the thick wings of her lashes. I kiss her there, at the vibrant heart of her blush, and then take her mouth again.

****oO%Oo****

I can't breathe.

All my air has turned to fire. I burn with each breath. I burn under his touch. His broad palm on my jaw, his thumb running over my cheekbone, the tips of his fingers persistent at the back of my neck. I want to lift my eyes to his but it seems so difficult. To see the world would be to tip right off of it. Like standing at the stern of a boat rocked in a storm. As long as I just hold on, don't look, I won't get flung into the ocean.

My lungs shiver as I force my eyes open. Edward is right there, heavy lidded and half smiling at me. The upward curve taking just half his mouth. Showing me just a few of his beautiful teeth. Showing me every bit of his languorous intent.

I'm breathing his air, our lips finding each other through a wall of shared breath, hot. It makes my heart hammer in my chest. It makes my blood simmer in my veins. It frees the far reaches of my body and sends them farther.

Does he feel like this? Like his blood has turned to radioactive plasma?

****oO%Oo****

I inhale her. I consume her. She hums under my touch, my mouth at her throat, her fingers embedding into my shoulders. God, she tastes divine. Like ocean and spice and Bella. I sketch kisses behind her ear, the scent of her hair is intoxicating. I'm breathing it. I'm breathing her.

The skin is not enough. The air we share is not enough. I need more. More. She's all around me, yet I can't get close enough.

She turns her face, nipping at my ear, sucking, lingering over the frenzied pulse under my jaw.

Can she taste my heart beating?

I trail my fingers down, slipping them under her shirt to find the soft skin of her stomach. Her hands reach to cover mine.

"Slow."

It's been so long. It's been forever. Since I've held a woman that pulls the different apexes of my soul into one twisting mandate. It's never happened. I've never felt this. This maddening siren call that makes demands on every part of me.

My nerves, my pulse, myself – tethered and owned.

"I don't know if I can … not this time. "

"I'm nervous."

"Bella. My love. Mine. Don't be."

"What if … you don't-"

I turn my hand to grip hers, guiding it to the ache in my jeans, pressing against her.

"You own me, Bella. Don't doubt it."

She flexes her fingers and I groan, coming upright and yanking the thermal over my head. My t-shirt goes with it. Her body responds in kind, slender shoulders rising from the bed as though connected to me, as though pulled by my distance, compelled close.

She goes to her knees, rubbing her face against my navel, like a kitten, purring, running her nose against the hair above the slide of my belt as her fingers curl around my hipbones.

I watch her.

She bends to brush lower, finding the ridge of my cock, working her face over it. The air in my lungs gone thin, the blood in my brain just gone. Light head, swimming.

I can't watch anymore. Can't think.

My eyes find the ceiling, it sways over me.

I push her gently back, finding the hem of her t-shirt, pulling it up over her head.

Her bra is lopsided. One side swelling with a small pert breast. The other empty. Flat. Deflated with nothing to fill it.

I seek out the hooks at her back, unclasping them, bringing the straps slow down her arms. She trembles, and I kiss her neck, her ear, whispering into it. Hushing noises to calm her fear, to reassure.

"Relax, Bella-Bella-Marie, relax. You're fucking … exquisite."

I pull her bra away, dropping it to the floor as her hands clasp under her chin. My heart finds its bottom, tumbling inside me, brutally knocking against my ribs.

I hate this posture. I hate her arms crossed over her breast and her scar.

The power in me, like the worn cogs of a wheel, chokes against itself. Slips.

Gentle, my mind commands.

And I think I am. But the strength of my body is exponential to hers. I force her arms down.

"Don't hide from me. Not ever."

****oO%Oo****

My cheeks flood with incandescent heat.

He towers over me. With the easy assured grace given to powerful men. A man vibrating in his most animal state, every muscle taut in some sort of defiance. Defying another's will, their resistance, or their attempt to chain him. He is explosive, barely contained.

He is virile, a predator.

I try to ignore my self-doubt. I try to silence the small voice that whispers about all his other lovers, that my appeal will evaporate, that his vigor will wane to look at me.

His body, scarred, but still incredibly beautiful, speaks in contrast to mine.

I've seen him shirtless before. I've seen him shuck his mortality before. I've seen his eyes blaze, black like they are now. This man is master. This domain is his.

This domain is a place of adulation, and as is found in all places of worship, I find the feeling that my offering is too humble.

The feeling that the god before you deserves a goddess.

****oO%Oo****

The feeling that the goddess underneath you deserves a better man than you will ever be.

I can see it all over her face. Her fear, her hesitancy, even shame.

Though I loom over her, her hands clasped in mine, I'm still looking up. She needs to know it.

She needs to know who rules this place.

"I'm the one on my knees, Bella. Remember that."

I push her down to the pillows and bow to her nipple, sucking it in, squeezing the soft breast into my mouth, my fingers tracing twisted skin on the other side. I drag my mouth against the sharp rise and fall of her chest, my own breath coming short. I reach for her mouth with mine, to breathe her soft moans, to taste them, before kissing down the branches of her apple tree, leaving a path of heat over flowers and fruit and scars. And words.

_Finding beauty in the dissonance_

She whimpers.

I look down on her, her flushed face beautiful, her hair wild about the pillows, her tattoos glowing against the white comforter … her arms creeping inward.

"Tsk, tsk."

I trap her hands in one of mine, stretching them up over her head. Pulling them long, finding the delicate flesh of her underarm, her ribs, her breast, her clavicle, her scar. Her neck, her mouth.

Mine.

****oO%Oo****

The flame of his kiss and the scratch of his beard have me burning, atop my skin and under it.

My thighs rub against each other, trying to bring the friction higher, into myself. To quell the manic aching as he speaks. As he speaks in poetry against my skin. Some of it is incoherent. Some of it is obvious.

"Mine. I should have known it. From the fucking start."

His free hand slides under me, lifting me to him. "First your smile. That was first … and then here." His hand skims my shoulder blade. "Taunting me from afar. I had no idea the capable body I wanted was simply beckoning me with its ownership. Like semaphore. Like a smoke signal. Writhe into me, Bella. I want to feel it."

I do, pressing the pinnacle of all my pliable yearning into the steel of him.

He said he would brand me. Under my skin.

And he is.

He straightens, lifting his body impossibly far from me. I reach for his belt buckle and pull it free. I've unbuttoned his fly before, slipping buttons from holes, but this time is different. He can't keep his eyes open. They fall closed as my hand finds him through the soft material of his boxers, thick and rigid. Heat. He is heat. My hand is full of his heat.

Feather light touches, then I slide my hand under the waistband and stroke him. His intake of breath is audible. He clutches my wrist, pressing himself into my palm. His hips churn, filling my hand with the weight of his cock.

I watch him, his broad shoulders tense, bronze hair spilling into his eyes, a slight smear of pink stretching from his temples to his cheekbones. His chest surging with each abrupt breath.

His lashes flutter open. Beautiful dark-to-light lashes, wild. Like fire. His upper lip stiffens, baring his canine teeth, a dark lustful sneer, and then his hands are on me, fisting my hair, yoking my head back, devouring at my neck. I can feel his lips and his teeth.

Fervent, psychopathic blurring of two into one. Consume me.

Everything I am is for him. He is for me.

His hands are mine. His breath is mine. His lust is mine.

I let myself fall back down to the bed, reaching for my own buttons, but he brushes my hands away making quick work of my zipper, not stopping, sliding my jeans from me as I tug his down low on his hips.

We tangle and laugh—shaky, breathless—parting to divest ourselves of our pants. I climb back to the bed, clad only in my underwear. I'm on my knees, my arms crossed over my chest when he shakes his head at me. I have a moment of steep insecurity that douses the flame of my ardor.

There is no way I can do this. I tell him so.

His voice is hoarse, insistent. "You're doing it, Bella. You're already doing it."

He's on his knees before me, tugging my hands from my chest again, kissing me, kissing the fear from my blood, burning it out. Backing me against the wall with the ferocity of his lust, pillows pushed to the floor.

"I want you. I've wanted you for so fucking long. I have to have you."

The sharp set of his features tell me he's making an effort to go slow. "This… is my church." He kisses my shoulder. "This is a holy place. A shrine." He kisses my ribcage, dragging his thumbs over nipple and scar, singing softly against my skin. "I try to be good, to do my time, but suggestions of what's underneath will undo me, I think." His thumbs hook my panties and pull them down.

****oO%Oo****

I carefully sweep her from her arch against the wall to lie flat against the bed. A turn of my wrist and I bind her ankles in her panties, dragging her off the pillows towards me. I move to look at her, stretched long and lean, ready for me. I hold the evidence, hot and damp in my palm.

I can smell her. It's a brazen scent that pricks at the feral part of my brain with impulses I hold at bay with short shallow breaths. I need to taste her.

I place my mouth against her small thatch of curls, needing only the smallest moment to find her clit, teasing it with persistent delicate attention. Swirling my tongue around it, across it, sucking gently. She's sweet-tart, the taste driving me out of my right mind, the impulse of my body to bite and plunge and thrust and take.

Taste and thrive, take. Smite. Touch, conquer, fuck.

I reach down and untangle her feet so I can spread her legs wide, bracing her open with my knee while I return to suck her mouth, her neck, her nipple, her navel and then back to her pussy. I lick it and pluck at her, play her with my tongue as I push a finger inside her.

"Edward. Please."

Her breathy voice wraps itself around me, tugging. Easy.

Easy.

My neck is growing hot, taut, connected to a tightening coil inside me. My mind blurs, as I use two fingers, slowly beckoning to her from the inside. She rolls against my hands and my stomach swims, churns in tandem with the blaze spreading across my shoulders and down my back.

Easy.

The glow inside me burns from yellow to red and I pull myself away, tucking my cheek into the grind of my teeth as I try to breathe some air that won't have me spilling inside my boxers. I need to just calm down a minute.

She squirms against the bed as I rake my mind for anything. Anything that isn't the taste of her. Anything. I have nothing but her. She is all that I am. And I'm too fucking close.

"I'm going to fuck this up."

****oO%Oo****

_What? _

My heart is pounding. My mind races. He makes his mistakes in running. In fleeing. He looks scattered, frayed around the edges. His hair stays standing after he drags his hand through it. A spike of fear revolves in my chest. "Are you leaving?"

He laughs, short and sharp. "Not going to leave. The opposite." He smiles deprecatingly and shakes his head, giving me his chastised look. "I'm … a little. Overwhelmed. Right now. I just need a minute." His breathing is ragged.

I spin onto my knees and climb onto his lap, wrapping my arms about his neck.

"Good."

Seeing him so disarmed – gives me courage. Gives me words. "I've thought of it … so many times. I want to see it."

He groans.

****oO%Oo****

She's trying to kill me.

"I just … don't care to humiliate myself."

"Awww. You could use a little humility, though. Don't you think?" Her voice is breath down my spine as she whispers into my ear. "Do you know what your arousal feels like to me? It's … just. I've never felt anything like it." She lays her hand over my heart.

"I can't. You … first."

She tugs my ear into her mouth. "Maybe _you_ should go first."

"No."

"Just let go, Edward."

"I can't believe we're arguing about this."

"It's in our nature."

We laugh and I relax. "I love you, Bella."

I can feel exactly how much she means it, just by the way she looks at me. The way she runs her hand over my cheek, her thumb grazing the corner of my mouth. "I love _you, _Edward."

Something inside me breaks under the weight of those words. Within the intensity of her gaze. Her absolute devotion to me, even from the very beginning. This woman. Loves me.

Me.

I can do fucking anything. I can be whatever she needs. I know it, in this moment. I can prove it with this body. By giving. By taking.

She wants me to let go? Fine.

****oO%Oo****

We're back to the start. Kissing, groping. Frantic. Holding on to each other. Writhing into each other. Breathing each other, speaking each other with every movement.

Desire has me in its inferno, has turned my limbs to mere extensions of my will. And my will is to have him. To touch him. To find all of him. And I do. I run my fingers down the length of him, watching his eyelashes flutter and his chest heave as I coax his boxers down. He breathes, and I envy the air. It gets to touch him from the inside. My mouth finds the breath from his lungs and pulls it in. My hand finds his cock, grips it, strokes, watching concentration bind the muscles of his face.

"Enough."

He reaches to grab the box of condoms from where he tossed it earlier, when he aimed for the bedside table but hit floor instead. He tears the box in half attempting to open it, foil packages rain down on me and he tosses the cardboard aside. My hands close around his and he laughs under his breath.

"I'm shaking."

I swipe the pouches to the floor, keeping one, tearing it open and rolling it over his cock. His eyes darkly burning, watch me. He twitches under my touch.

"You have to … let me know … if I hurt you."

"You won't."

****oO%Oo****

_Holy fuck. _

I ease into her, fighting the urge to buck my hips. Fighting the white-hot blare of light burning in my depths.

"Oh, God." Her voice is small, barely there.

"Good?"

She just nods, her splint inching to cover her scar. I move it, pin it to the bed, and thrust.

And back.

The suck of her pussy is so fucking hot, clamping down on me, pulling me in. I can only pull out because of intense fucking will and the in-stroke is all resistance. I consider fingering her clit, but I know there's not one chance in hell I'm going to last long enough to make her come. Those are things I will have to learn. But not now. Not when I'm a breath away from losing it.

Thrust. _Jesus Fucking Christ._

She moans, arching towards me, arching up to press the crown of her head into the pillows, the angle of her body increasing the pressure squeezing my cock.

_Fuck. _I say it out loud and roll her over me. She rises in slow motion, in a fluid laden brushstroke, up and then rocking. Painting me in the long undulation of her body.

Stroke. Her body moving. Her eyes closed.

Fuck. Ride me.

I grip at her hips and thrust off the bed into her.

Stroke. Her arms cross over her chest. I don't have the presence of mind to move them.

Stroke. Her hips trace a figure of eight against me, a soft gasp escaping her parted lips, bruised rosy from my kiss.

My vision blurs as I try to hold back. But I can't.

Time built it, her body fed it. I can't control it.

I'm coming.

****oO%Oo****

Edward tips his head back, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows nothing, as his hands clamp down on my waist and hold me still. He groans, low, from his chest like a growl.

I press my hands to his heart. He tops mine with his, pressing it against his sternum and the speeding thuds underneath.

He breathes.

I try to breathe.

His eyes open, finding mine. He pulls me down with a tug at my arm. Kissing, rolling atop me.

"I can finish that now."

With that he's back laving at my clitoris, teasing it, the fingers of one hand toying with my nipple while the other rubs a folded knuckle against my sex. He kisses and sucks and pinches and whispers, until I'm bent backwards, finding my own momentary oblivion.

By the time I settle back into my body he's rewrapped himself, ready, pushing into me again.

****oO%Oo****

Her waxing orgasm blew the blood from my body to my hardening cock. Now her waning orgasm ripples through it, her muscles doing a dance of suck and give, suck and give, and I press in slowly. Holding still as she quivers around me.

Her hand grips my ass, pulling me in, and my restraint crumbles.

I spread her legs wide so I can pump full and hard into her heat. Her face is flushed, her coffee stain eyes wide and imploring me to really fuck her. And then her mouth says it.

"Fuck me."

Fucking yes.

She isn't loud, but she isn't quiet either, and all her moans, pushed out of her lungs by the deep plunge of my cock, condense my need into one glowing burn of imperative thrust. I grip her by her hips and lift her up onto my knees, pulsing her up as I hammer down.

I paw through her slippery flesh to find her clit and rub at it, she mews. I bend to suck her breast into my mouth and she whimpers, straining into me. I snake a hand under her and hold her against me.

I barely hear it when she shivers, "Oh my God."

But I can feel the quake of the cavern gripping me.

"Fuck. Fuck."

I'm done.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

I watch Bella sleep.

The blankets are twisted around her naked body, her hair twisted around me, the bulk of it flowing over my chest, exposing her nape to my fingers. Tucked into her side is her splinted hand, the posture makes me think of a broken wing held protectively close to the body.

I brush my hand over the curling wisps of hair, soft, so incredibly soft, down to the delicate protrusion of her spine under her skin, and along her shoulder blade. Then back up.

In this moment, I'm sure I've never been happy. Not like this. Not at peace. Nowhere, like when I'm with Bella.

Following swiftly after that feeling is fear. Fear. Never far from my heart.

I can't lose her.

And I can't fight her battles for her.

I can only love her.

I push a lock of hair back behind her ear and she hums in her sleep.

I still can't believe she's alone. How can someone like her have been overlooked in love for so long? I feel the answer in my blood, in the heart that sends it out to my extremities and calls it back.

Because she's mine. Because she was meant for me. I should've known it long ago. I wasted so much time. The thought cuts my blood with acid. Time.

I want her again, but I don't want to wake her. I tell myself it can wait.

But it can't.

I bend and kiss the shell of her ear, right over her sapphire, trailing down to her neck, my hand gliding over the curve of her hip. She sighs in her sleep and says my name.

"Edward?"

"Yes, my love?" My love. My love. My words echo my heart.

"What …? Oh." I close my mouth around her nipple and suck it gently as it pearls hard in my mouth. I squeeze her breast with one hand as the other finds her back, bringing her to arch, bringing her closer.

I kiss her ear again and speak softly into it. I feel the flush of her skin against mine as I ask her to show me how she likes it best.

"I don't know if I can, again."

"Show me anyway. I've thought of it so many times, I want to see it."

Fearless Bella, her hand cramped in her splint, finds mine and guides it over her navel and into her soft flesh. She operates my fingers, using them to draw small circles around her clit.

Cradled close, I kiss her mouth as my right hand grazes her breast, lazily brushing the puckered nipple and caressing the mound around it, trailing my fingers up to her collarbone and back down. Her hand leaves mine to its devices, her own fingers gliding up my arm, to my shoulder, to my neck.

My mind is whirling, not unlike my fingers, surging, not unlike her chest, lifting and falling with her breath. I curl my hand about her shoulder and bring her closer as her body pulses in my arms. I want to hold it. Just savor the crescendo of her whimpers, but my body moves without my permission. I'm sliding a condom on and pushing into her, the residual aftershocks engulfing me.

Clench and release.

My hands find the bones of her hips and hoist her into me as I press her back. My cock pushes her breath out, draws it in, makes it tremble. Makes me tremble.

My world capsizes to the reactions in her body. The exquisite torture of trying to hold out as long as I can. But I can't.

I didn't know sex could be like this.

* * *

><p>***BPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>The cottage is still when I wake up. I can feel the bed is empty next to me. Night is claiming the light outside the window, and the room is haunted with unfamiliar shadows.<p>

"Edward?"

Nothing.

Cold dread creeps through me. He wouldn't leave. Would he? Not now. I roll to a sitting position and swing my legs over the side of the mattress. In the murky twilight I can make out a small card with my name on it next to the honor bar.

My heart somersaults.

He wouldn't leave me here.

I stand, pulling my t-shirt on just as the door to the cottage opens. Jake comes bounding in. I hadn't even realized he was gone. He comes straight for me, rubbing against my legs like an overgrown cat. His fur is chilled and slightly damp.

Edward comes in behind him, his arms laddered with glinting silver containers, foil to-go boxes. A bag is slung over one arm and I hear bottles clank inside it. He eases the door into its frame and turns to the small table to unburden himself.

His back is so broad, it's a shelter. When he stretched himself over me, when his eyes rolled as his lashes closed out the world. He bites the inside of his cheek when he comes, his chest purring out the noise I heard long ago on the phone. The quiet growl of his soul. I love it.

"Hey."

His hands stop unpacking napkins and plasticware from the bag. He turns to me and we look at each other. I smile but he doesn't smile back. He just looks at me.

Can he feel my abating fear? Fear that he ran again. Can he see it in my face? Why is he just staring? I pull my hair forward. It's a self-conscious gesture I can't seem to stop.

"Is something wrong?"

"Remember … Christmas Eve … when you told me that I let my mouth run awful things?"

"Yeah."

"And that I must think good things about you?"

I feel the heat move from my back to my face. I nod.

"I'm working up the nerve to let my mouth run all the things I'm thinking about you right now."

"Good things?"

He closes his eyes. "Oh, Bella."

I smile. The look of wonder on his face makes my heart float in my chest.

"Why is it so much harder … to say the good things? The super cheesy things? Do you think?"

His brows wrinkle. "Hmmm. I think. Anger. It's a defense mechanism. Maybe. It keeps you, safe. Unexposed."

"Maybe."

He crosses the room and pushes my hair back over my shoulder, letting his fingers caress my neck, up to my ear. I think his eyes are on the sapphire when he says, "While good things just open you up to rejection. It's a vulnerability, to show your love. It feels like showing your weakness."

His gaze leaves my ear and works over my face.

I nod. "That makes a lot of sense."

"I feel very, very vulnerable right now."

Our eyes meet and lock. "Good."

He chuckles. "Are you hungry?"

"Famished. What did you get?"

"All kinds of stuff." He leads me to the table by my fingers, flipping on the light that dangles low over the table. Cartons of food cover the surface. Scalloped potatoes and crab legs and rare steak in au jus. I don't really eat any of this stuff, but I smile at him anyway. He laughs.

He opens another carton. Roasted chicken. And another. Mixed veggies. And one more. A winter salad with nuts and baked squash. He makes a face at that one.

"That was the grossest looking thing on the menu so I figured you would love it."

I feel a wave of tender appreciation crash inside me. The table—full of what I now understand to be his and hers cartons of food—blurs out of focus.

"I can go back out, Bella. I-"

I shake my head and turn into him. He gathers me up. _This_ is what love feels like. Like a man who cares enough to feed you the things you want to eat. A man who pays attention to you. A man who sees you and likes to. Likes to look at you, even though you aren't perfect.

I convinced myself, long ago, that I was fine on my own. That I could kill my own spiders. I could fix my own anything. But it's not the doing of those things that matters. It's having someone who _wants_ to do those things for you. Who waits for your smile, who hates your tears and your self-doubt.

Edward loves me. He knows me. He knows. And he still wants me.

****oO%Oo****

Bella is so quiet when she cries. Soft and delicate into my shirt, her hands over her face. Like she doesn't want anyone to know. My jaw clenches with her pain, with the unknown cause of it. With the doubt and vulnerability racking me.

All at once I understand.

Returning from war, I found myself awed by the stupidest things. I recognized liberty in every moment, every little thing underscoring the contrast between civilian and military life. Small things. Using a bathroom instead of a bucket, drinking when I want, eating what I want. Sleeping without a gun. Speaking whenever and however I choose. Sometimes those things were more than what they are. They were freedom, they were home. They were being alive.

The dinner on the table isn't just food. I get that. It's being loved. It's not being alone anymore.

What that means to me is her trust. She trusts me.

That is being free. Being alive.

Being loved.

****oO%Oo****

I wash my face and put on fresh jeans and a hoodie before joining Edward at the little table for dinner. He's scooping potatoes onto a paper plate and he looks up at me with a smile.

_The_ smile. My favorite. The smile of a carefree boy. Easy. Happy.

I return it and grab a plate and a fork. We sit across from each other. Edward pours some wine into a real wine glass, sliding it over the table to me.

"Was the tattoo over your scar the first?"

It occurs to me that there is nothing false in Edward's question. There is nothing reaching or guiding.

It just IS this way.

I nod. He puts a bite of steak into his mouth, chewing it while I watch. Then he smiles at me. "I like it. I like asymmetry. I always-" His face falls, some sudden realization draining the mirth from it. He shakes his head. "The apple. Fuck."

He drains his glass of its Scotch before looking at me and smiling again. It's not a warm smile, not this time. It's full of self-recrimination. "More things to apologize for."

"Edward. No. I'm the one who should apologize for that. I … I almost told you that day. Right then, at the market. I should have. Then-"

"No, Bella. I'm glad you didn't."

He gives me a sheepish look, tilting his chair back and placing his palm against his neck. "I wasn't ready."

I consider that, pushing salad around on my plate. "When do you think you were ready?"

He exhales sharply, the chair thunking back to the floor. "I don't know … Christmas … maybe."

I swallow a bite of salad, rinsing it down with wine. I'm about to agree with him, to say I'm sorry … although god knows there have been enough of those levied between the two of us, when he speaks.

"No. No … I needed to find out … the way that I did. It sucks to say that, I know. But Mike—his attitude—solidified something in me. Something that I needed to understand to be with you."

"What?"

"It isn't just one thing, or one feeling, actually. It's more like … this understanding of what you've been up against. I saw it a lot in Afghanistan. This derogatory attitude towards women, I've even shared in it. I've judged or … I don't know … just. Mike helped me see how and why you hid it from me. Does that make sense?"

I am not going to cry again.

Everything happens for a reason. I've told myself that a million times. Especially in my struggle to deal with this body, this loneliness. And now I can say it about Mike. Edward is mine, because Mike helped point him at me.

I smile. "I think I'm going to send Mike the mother of all thank you cards."

Holy moly. I will never get tired of watching Edward smile. "I'll sign it."

I try my best to imitate Edward, mimicking his left handed scrawl against the air. "Sorry I knocked your lights out. Nothing personal. Love – Edward."

"Take out the mush and you've got it about right."

Our laughter fills the room and he pushes back from the table, moving to the desk to refill his glass. Instead he comes back to the table with his glass and the bottle.

He retakes his seat, generously pouring scotch into his glass as he scratches above his eyebrow with a hooked finger.

"Phil asked me … if you've relapsed."

"I haven't. But at some point-"

"I don't understand. Didn't the doctors advise you to have a double mastectomy?"

I chew and swallow before answering. "One did."

"Why didn't you?"

I set my fork down, my heart skittering in my chest. "I thought it would be easier … for me."

Edward nods. "Okay."

He looks expectant. It's time for hard explanations, past time.

"My body, my reliable body had become, I don't know. Not _me_. Foreign. I was so angry with it. I felt like all the ways I understood myself had to be redefined. I am not this body, to some extent, I just live here. Separated … from my flesh. I saw myself in parts. And the healthy breast … was like hope. I don't know how to explain. I was young and … my own health wasn't the only thing occupying me."

"What happened … with your mom?"

"My mom caught her cancer late. Stage Four. It had spread to her lymph nodes and lungs. Really, it was a weird coincidence that I was diagnosed while my mom was in treatment."

"A coincidence?"

I toy with the plastic knife next to my paper plate. "I went to the doctor for something unrelated. My boyfriend and I were … talking about sex. I went for-"

"Dmitri?"

"How do you know that?"

The light shining down from over the table etches his face in planes of light and shadow. "More things for me to apologize for. I saw pictures of him … in your photo albums."

"Oh. Yes. Dmitri is Phil's nephew. We grew up together."

"I saw." He pauses before asking, "He was first?"

I nod.

"And then Mike?"

Again.

"Guy number two," he mimics. "How long ago was that?"

"Couple years ago." I try to say it casually, but Edward grins. I'm pretty sure he's remembering, as I am, the conversation we had at Bella Italia where he concluded that I didn't currently have another lover based on my scent.

"How did you meet him?"

"He came into Olympian to see the broker. Looking for a site for Newton's Two. He was kind of quiet. Actually—I don't know if you noticed, but, he almost stutters. Anyway. He seemed really nice. And he was, but he was also annoyingly passive-aggressive. One of the reasons I decided to go out with you is because… you're so different from Mike."

"Good. That guy is slime."

"Well, at the time, he didn't seem to be. He was very understanding. He sort of … ignored that part of my body, and that was fine. I wanted to like him. He had good taste in music and-"

He waves his hand. "Yeah, yeah. But how did he _smell_?"

I laugh. "Acceptable."

"Psh. I smell way better than that."

"You do. Galactically better."

"Ooooh galactically. Is that even a word?" His eyes are teasing.

"It is now."

"So. What happened?"

"It just didn't … work out."

"Tell me, Bella."

"Mike. Mike ... _said _... it didn't bother him. But it did. Maybe because he doesn't know what he wants. But certainly … I mean no man _wants_… a girl with one-"

"I do."

"You say that now. But in a year … will you be ready for me to get reconstruction?"

"Is that what happened with Mike?"

"He started suggesting it. And it started rubbing me the wrong way."

Edward pushes the remnants of his meal out of the way and leans forward, his fingers splayed over the rim of his glass. "Okay. Let's get this out of the way right now. Why didn't you get reconstruction?"

I push my own food out of the way and pull my wine glass in front of me, swirling it against the tapletop, watching it move under my fingers. "Well first - it might mess up my tattoo."

"Good reason."

****oO%Oo****

I smile at her but she doesn't look up. Her eyes follow the swish of the wine in her glass. It's almost empty so I reach for the bottle to top her off. She covers the top of her glass with her hand and shakes her head.

I set the bottle down and wait for her to speak, but she just shifts in her chair.

"Bella. Look—I know maybe you don't want to talk about this right now. But I need to know."

She runs her tongue over her lip and then bites it. "It's just hard to find the right words. Explaining a feeling, my reasoning, to some extent, it probably won't make sense."

"I don't want to get psycho-analytical, but if it's how you feel, even if you can't explain it. It's valid. You don't have to make me understand, exactly."

She clears her throat. "I lost this breast when I was 17. I was sort of … a late bloomer. I didn't really have any girlfriends, a couple casual ones. I had only had sex once when I got the call that they wanted to do a biopsy. It sounds stupid, but … at the time, I didn't know myself sexually at all. I didn't understand men at all. Not at all. And my mom was dying."

I abandon my chair and move to the one directly next to her, taking her hand from where it fidgets at the stem of her glass and weaving my fingers through hers.

Her eyes cut to mine, velvety and deep, emphatic.

"I was an athlete. In water—I'm fast. I was prouder of my athleticism than my figure. That didn't change when I got cancer. I used it to identify who I was. Who I am. I am not dollparts. My parents … well Mom and Phil, are very earthy people. Even my dad has this deep connection with nature. I couldn't reconcile myself with an implant. And, because I had already chosen to keep the healthy breast …" She shrugs a shoulder before going on. "The doctors told me they wouldn't match. So—what was the point? I already didn't match. Without the pain and trial of reconstruction. I just … didn't have the energy for it. At the time."

She looks away, at our hands folded together.

"And then later, when I started to realize … I don't know."

"What men are really like?"

Her eyes go round, shining in the dim light.

I smile at her and squeeze her hand. "Pigs, remember. Fiends. You said so yourself."

"Just you."

I laugh. She cracks a small smile.

"Anyway. I got stubborn about it. What men want was not a good enough reason for me to do it. I was fine with me. For a long time, I was just trying to find my path in the wake of the disease. In the aftermath of my mom dying. Whether or not I had two breasts—when they didn't matter all that much to me—was, I don't know. It just wasn't a priority, not for a while. I envied other women. But I envied them their unblemished lives, more than their bodies. An implant doesn't fix that. All it does is help me forget that I need to be vigilant against cancer. So ... I got the tattoo."

"You sound like you regret that."

"I don't. I just ... I began to feel trapped in my own body. Decorated or not. I couldn't get past my reflection. Or the way men react to it. And then Mike, Mike just—don't get tense Edward. To his credit, he wasn't half as difficult as you are. Just ... a worm. Wormy and spineless. You aren't that. But you haven't been a picnic either."

I bring her knuckles to my kiss. "Should I apologize again?"

"Maybe once more."

"I'm sorry Mike was a spineless worm."

"Are you?"

I laugh and shake my head. "I guess not, actually."

"You're laughing a lot today."

"Relief, Bella."

"So this isn't the norm?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

She looks at me slantwise. "Yeah. I think I do."

I smile into my scotch, drink, and set the glass on the table, pulling Bella to her feet.

"Are you done?"

Her eyebrows go up.

"Eating. Not … talking."

"Yes."

"Let's go out on the deck."

****oO%Oo****

He pulls the folded blanket from the back of the leather sofa and gestures to the sliding glass door. I pour an inch of wine in my glass and follow him out. It's beyond brisk outside, the ocean air blowing fierce into the bay, the small waves lapping the shore several feet below us. I sit on the padded wooden bench and he throws the blanket over us.

Edward tips his glass back, draining it, setting it to the side.

"I'm going to run my mouth now, Bella. You ready?"

I laugh softly. "This should be interesting."

"Yeah. I'm sure it will be."

His eyes are glossy and bright, reflecting the light shining through the window behind us.

"I'm not … really, an eloquent man-"

I scoff. He shrugs.

"The word _love_ gets thrown around a lot."

"How do you mean?"

"Just what I said. I love scotch. I love my car. It's not a sacred enough word. People love ice cream. Or bacon. It isn't … a big enough word. For how I feel. About you."

Both hands get raked through his hair.

"I know how hard it is … to talk about things you don't want to remember, or think about." He shakes his head. "I love you, Bella Swan. I love that you match me. But …"

I have thorns in my chest, poking and popping my lungs, deflating them. Ready for it, or trying to be.

"I wish you had two scars. I'll be a lot saner when you do."

I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

"My love for you has nothing to do with your body, your package. This decorated envelope you inhabit. Sure. I will use it to show my love…"

He's blushing. Even in the darkness I can see it.

"You can get the reconstruction … or not get it. It doesn't make a difference to me. That's not going to change. And … that's not a promise I don't know if I can keep. I do know it. I just. I love _you._"

Wow.

"Edward-"

"Look, Bella. I know what you mean about—trying to explain your reasoning—I feel like I'm doing a piss-poor job of it right now. My words feel flat in my own ears. I wish I could do this moment a little more justice."

He lets his breath out and I feel it on my hands.

"I wish you could see yourself—the way that I see you."

"How do you see me?"

He turns his face towards the railing, smiling, shaking his head.

While we are discussing the hard stuff, I need to come clean about something else. I take a deep breath.

"Alice gave me your dog tags. Did you know?"

****oO%Oo****

I clear my throat. "I didn't."

Bella looks at her wine glass. "Early on. Right after you left for Costa Rica."

My heart itches inside my chest. Fucking Alice.

"I gave them back to her. But … that was something else I lied about. I knew you were a Marine. Almost that whole time. I knew. And I didn't tell you that I knew. Our relationship, or whatever you want to call it, has been really lopsided, up until now."

I reach for some kind of feeling that Bella betrayed my confidence, but it doesn't come. I don't feel anything except irritated with my meddling sister.

"I have things to be sorry for, too. She shouldn't have given them to me. I know why she did it, but I was pretty irked with her about it."

"Why do you think she did it?"

"She wanted me to love you."

I can't help it. I laugh. "Add her to the list of people who get a thank you card."

Bella doesn't laugh. "I think she probably regrets it, now."

"She and Jasper can just eat their hearts out."

She laughs, a derisive little chuckle. "Yeah, he's no fan of yours."

"I know. Speaking of. Leah helped me find you."

Her mouth falls open. Her surprise is almost comical. "She did _not_."

I nod. "She did."

"Our thank-you card list is getting longer and longer."

"That sounds like something _you_ should handle."

She holds up her splinted hand. "Can't. Crippled, remember?"

"How could I forget?"

She leans her head against my shoulder and I pull her tight to me.

"Why do you have a peacock tattooed on your ass?"

She smiles into her wine glass, talking into it, her voice dimmed by the bowl. "Long story."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Peacocks are a funny bird. Their plumage … only really serves one purpose. To attract a peahen."

Bella shifts on the bench, turning to face me, reaching to set her glass down so she can talk with her hands. It reminds me of that first ride in my car, how she squared up with her knee over the console, explaining the inner workings of her engine.

"It's interesting because, theoretically their long tails are a disadvantage. It burdens them with extra weight, makes them slower. Easier prey—you know?"

I nod. I think I understand. Symbolism of her trying to adjust to life without plumage. Even though breasts do serve a purpose.

"Peacocks are a great example of sexual selection. Peahens aren't necessarily choosing the fittest partner. Just the prettiest. And why? Why would they do that? They only burden their offspring with heavy, unnecessary tails."

I tilt my head and look at her.

"They do it … because they want their sons to have the best chance at mating, too. A son with a short tail would be shunned by peahens. The genetic legacy would end there. With the short tailed peacock."

"What does this mean … to you, Bella?"

She clears her throat, animated explanation over, her shoulders slump. Just a little. "My genetic legacy ends here. I probably have the breast cancer gene. I'm not going to give that to my children. I know it sounds silly. But that's why I got my peacock. That's what it means to me. Although there are a lot of other meanings, too."

I know this. I remember Riley and I coming across a white peacock in Peshawar. I had asked him what the fuck it was and he had laughed. "You've never seen an albino peacock, Cat?"

"Is that what that thing is?"

"Divine bird. Revered by Muslims and Christians alike. Symbols of resurrection and fidelity. Faith, Corporal. Faith."

Totally different from what they mean to Bella. "Did you want kids, Bella?"

She turns away from me and shrugs.

I look at her profile. Her genetics are beautiful. Like the peacock. Is it beauty that should be passed on, or is it survival? Is it health? Is a short uncertain life worse than none at all?

She turns her face to me. "This is just another reason why we're meant for each other, Edward. We aren't parent material."

My thoughts turn to Umar. How he would climb into my lap and fall asleep there while I read to him. We read an English-Pashtun-Farsi translation dictionary. He would read the word in his languages, and I would read it in mine. We butchered each other's words, laughing. He was lucky that he _could_ read. I was lucky that I got to know him.

Bella's studying my face and I wonder how much the darkness hides. "Do _you _… want children, Edward?"

I shake my head. "I was thinking of Umar."

She nods.

"I heard that it's really hard to adopt children from Afghanistan."

"It is. Impossible for non-Muslims."

"So stupid. So many kids over there-"

"Bella. Let's change the subject. Okay?"

Her hand is on my cheek, her thumb running under my eye. She smiles. "Do you know … the first time I dreamed about you?"

I cover her hand with mine.

"Right after the wedding. I was so mortified to face you at the office. Do you remember when I came to get the check for Jane?"

I groan.

"Could you tell? I so thought it was all over my face."

"I couldn't." I try to remember that morning. How Bella looked like she was leaving when I came out of my office. She was already pink when she turned around.

I smile.

"You _could_ tell!"

"I couldn't. I just thought you were flustered to be around me. Especially after-"

"I was!"

I pull her into me and kiss her hairline. She moves and I kiss her mouth. "You got over it."

Her hair swishes back and forth. "No. I never did."

"I never did, either."

"You were never flustered."

"Not flustered. More. Intrigued."

"Oh, well that will definitely wear off. Just give it time."

"Not likely." I kiss her again. Her mouth is warm, sliding against mine, spreading her heat to me, protecting me from the ocean air. "What did you dream, Bella?"

She sighs. "Dreams. There is no way I can tell you about it… and have it feel the way it felt… for me."

"Sounds like a theme for the evening. Poor Communication 101 with Edward and Bella. So, tell me how it felt."

Her laughter is light, bubbling out of her. "It felt awful."

"Oh God. What did I do?"

She covers her mouth with her splint, palm out, as if she can stop me hearing the words by blocking their exit. "You offered me your soul. In a cup. It was gold. Like … liquid sunshine. It tasted like … ambrosia or something. And you were smiling."

"That doesn't sound so bad."

"No. Until you consider that you didn't smile then. At least, not genuinely. And you took my parking spot at work. AND, you bullied me at the wedding."

"I didn't bully you."

She huffs.

"That was me flirting."

Her laugh is huge and abrupt. It makes me laugh.

"Exactly how do you get all this tail you're so proud of?"

My laughter quiets. "Girls usually eat it up with a spoon. You know, you're the only one who didn't."

"Apparently, I did."

"Thank fuck for that."

"Anyway. It sucked. I had this dream where you were sweet to me—more than that—and then I had to face you and your prickish ways."

"Bella. Just so you know. I'm not… proud of all the women I've been with. They were just… distractions."

She kisses me, her hands coming together behind my neck. Her fingers curling in and around my short hairs. We slide back against the bench, our mouths moving slowly together, the heat of her cheeks radiant against my face. I cup her jaw and pull back, watching her face as her eyes come languidly open. She smiles at me, her full-bloom smile. Her just for me smile.

My heart answers it.

I love her. I love her so much.

**...**

**(((HiFi)))**

**...**

* * *

><p>***BPOV***<p>

* * *

><p>I tip my head back and look at the Milky Way. So prominent. All the stars, turning the canopy of night a glowing swirly white.<p>

So many stars. It feels like every last one of them is sparkling up there.

I wonder if it's me. If stars burn hotter because I do.

I think they do.

The wine tastes better. The ocean smells impossibly fresher and more alive. Because I am more alive.

It occurs to me that this feeling, this glorious glow in me … this has to be healthy.

Because it feels so good.

I've traveled so far since this morning. Since I slumped from my Isuzu to take a long walk on the beach of my youth. But I'm not tired. Not like I was then.

I feel Edward's heat at my back and lean in to it. He whispers in my ear. "Come with me."

And I do.

He guides me inside. I can hear water running, steam humidifying the room, making the air thick and balmy, especially so after the crispy ocean night I was breathing out on the little deck.

"What are we doing?"

I think I know, but I like asking all the same. He doesn't answer, just turns to me, his fingers brushing mine at my side. His other hand reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ear. He's been doing that a lot. I like it.

"You make me want things I've never considered before. You make me feel…"

His eyes hold mine as his words fall away. He shakes his head. A tiny little shake. I shake mine back at him and we both smile. "Everything?"

"You make me want to be specific. To put a fine point to everything. I'm new, Bella. I feel new."

His fingers squeeze mine and he raises my hand to kiss my knuckles. He smiles, his Cullen teeth grazing the folded joints of my hand. "I want to make love to you. Take your clothes off."

I can't help the brow that springs up. I know it mocks him. His grin gets bigger.

"Shouldn't _you_ take my clothes off?"

He doesn't say anything, just sighs melodramatically and moves his hands to the zipper of my hoodie. I can tell he's trying to get his grin under control, his cheek's pinched in. It's adorable. I stick my tongue out at him. He laughs.

"You're so relaxed. I love it."

"Being away from Seattle will do that to me."

"Then let's never go back."

He chides me with a cluck of his tongue as he pulls the sweater from my arms, carefully lifting my hair and letting it fall against my t-shirt. "We have to go back."

"Maybe it will be better—when we do."

He nods, nudging me, and I lift my arms so he can pull off my shirt. His lids are heavy and lustful as his hand trails over the seam of my bra, from one side, down the V and back up to the other. His cheeks are just the tiniest bit pink, right under the outer corner of each eye.

"Your face is red." My voice is little more than a whisper. He doesn't look at me, just pulls his lip in with his teeth, his upper lip spreading over his canines, half smile—full intent. "You're blushing yourself there, Swan. My favorite of all your blushes. The one that lights your skin—and mine—on fire."

"Well, now … when you say things like that-" I'm trying to continue the playful mood. But he's done with it. He's changed gears.

"Are you wet, too? I used to imagine that the flame touching your face heated your body and readied it for me."

I can't get my breath. "I don't know. Why don't you check?"

Hand to my navel, he pushes me back against the wall. He slips the button atop my jeans from its hole and brings the zipper down, working the denim over my hips. My flesh prickles as he goes to his knees before me.

He looks up at me from the floor, and, holding me steady to the wall with one big hand, presses his mouth against the cotton of my panties. He breathes and rubs his face into me, speaking as he does. "Oh yes. Very."

Without looking up, he reaches, finds my arms crossed over my chest and pulls them down. "No hiding," he murmurs, nipping gently at me through the fabric.

He keeps talking, kissing, playing, slipping a finger inside the seam at my thigh to brush his knuckles directly against flesh. Then he pulls the fabric to the side and flattens his tongue against me.

This is more than touch. This is engulfment.

He hums too. I run my hands through his hair. I'm not holding him to me, I'm just making it clear he shouldn't stop yet.

His fervency increases and the scratch of his face is a little rough. "Gentle."

He pulls back, plucking the sides of my underwear and pulling them down. I move to step out of them but he stops me. "Not yet. I like looking at you with them around your ankles."

And he does look, for a long minute. I close my eyes and breathe, feeling the power of being a sexual creature. His lust for me undiminished by my imperfect body, to the point where I can almost forget and just be tangled in this moment with him. This moment where he can own me, he can command me. Whatever he wants is what I want. It's a high. It's a high like no other.

His tongue is on me again. Flat and persistent. Stroking, making circles, laving, until my knees are knocking and my shoulder blades are pressed to the wall. His hands on each of my hips, pulling me against his face as I come.

Through the veil of my lashes I can see him, looking up at me. My body is suddenly too heavy and one knee quivers out of joint. Edward growls and lifts me easily, tossing me back onto the unmade bed as he pries a condom from its wrapper and rolls it on.

He's braced on an arm above me, leaving kisses over my face as he positions himself, as he smiles against my skin. He whispers things to me, Edward in his heat, a poet, a lover. Inside, I am bigger than this body. I am universal. I am love. These are the thoughts fed into my mind by his words. Fed into my heart which flickers and burns and sends the flame dancing to him.

I can hold all of him inside me. Not just his cock. More.

So much more than these separate bodies. As he wraps his arms around me, pulling me flush to him as he moves, his hand at the small of my back and another tangled in my hair. It's more—so much more—than I can take. I cling to him. I touch all the parts of him that own me. I become their master, with my hands. My exploring hands seeking and finding him.

I have no maps for this. But I know exactly where I'm going. The landscape of his body with its scars, its ridges of bone and muscle, the forest of hair curling over his collarbone, the hollow notch there. The anatomy of his bite, his taste, his scent. Our scent. The two of us a harmony stretched long.

More than that.

Infinite. Finite.

I hear his breath catch in his throat, and I press my hand to the sound, feeling the vibration as his cheek pinches in, his head goes slack on its stem, falling forward until his forehead touches to mine. He slows, fully encased in me and I watch, as he did. I watch the world leave him far behind. I feel. I feel his pulse, his lips find mine in his darkness and he growls his orgasm into my mouth.

His sweltering weight atop me is relief from every other moment. He goes to his back, rolling me, keeping me close, holding me to him. I lounge long against him, losing the contours of my body, my awareness sharpening to the rise and fall of his chest and the firm press of his fingers in my hair.

And then something else.

"Edward?"

"Mmm?"

"Is there water running?"

"It's the bathtub filling."

"Has that been going this whole time?"

He chuckles. "Yeah."

I get up on an arm and look down at him. His eyes creak open and smile up at me while his fingers twirl and tug at my hair. "You're so… beautiful, Bella. You really. Are. A Bella."

"Edward, what about the tub?"

"It fills really slowly. It's a big tub. Should be fine."

"I'm going to go check it."

He gestures with his fingers for me to do so.

The tub looks like a foam snowcone, melting in the summer. Iridescent bubbles piled high and spilling in clumps to the tile floor where they slowly burst and turn back to soap.

The tap squeaks as I swivel it closed. I'm reaching for the bubble bath container when Edward strides naked and purposeful into the room and starts laughing.

I love the sound.

"Did you pour this whole bottle in there?"

His answer is broken up by giggles. "Is that not… what you're supposed to do?"

I give him a look.

"I put those in there, too." He points to an empty sack of English Rose bath crystals.

"It's like … a big porcelain perfume cauldron."

"Oh well," he says, gripping the curled edges of the tub, hoisting himself in. "Yeah, it's definitely oily."

"You are going to need a shower after you get out of there. I'm going to go get you some Irish Spring or something so you can wash all that girl smell-"

"No way. I ran this for you. Get in here."

"I'm not getting in there. I'll never get clean."

His face loses all humor, except his eyes which dance with mirth. "Don't make me come get you."

"Hah. You couldn't catch me if you tried. I could slam that door and you won't be able to turn the knob."

"I'll use a towel."

"Good point."

"Do you concede?"

I sigh. Really… I just don't want to take my bra off.

No hiding.

I undo the clasp and toss it, remove my splint, drop it to the floor, and get in the tub.

We don't wash, what's the point? We lounge. Edward against the sloped back of the tub and me against him. We stay in until the water is uncomfortable. Tepid and slick. I pull the plug and try to stand, gripping the side of the tub and Edward's sturdy knee. My hair is a wet mess, pulled long by the weight of the soaped water and I wring it out over Edward's chest. He smiles.

"Are you sore yet?"

"Not yet."

"Good."

And then we're on the bathroom rug. A slippery tangle of arms and legs.

I've never seen Edward smile this much.

When his hand hits the slick floor and slides out from under him, he comes down hard on me, the bulk of him pressing me into the floorboards, the vibration of his laughter resonating from within me. I wrap my legs around him and we laugh, together, wound up and covered in quickly drying soap.

He rolls me atop him, his hands clutching my waist. I tuck my arm and he clucks at me. "Give me your hand. No, the other one."

"Be careful with it. Remember it's broken."

He kisses the knuckle of my ring finger, before grasping me by the wrist and holding my arm straight as he nudges upwards with his hips. Before long our pace has become fevered and the hard floor under the mat hurts my knees.

But I don't stop. I can't stop.

****oO%Oo****

I can't see her face, just her neck, stretched long and beautiful, her decorated chest and arms, her chin, her hair losing drops that hit my legs and roll to the floor. I hold her arm away from her chest, away from her tree and her scar. Held long and aloft because I want there never to be shame here. I never want the sexual space we own to be ruled by insecurity or self-doubt.

We're free here. With each other. I'm free—I want to bring her with me. I want her to find more than pleasure here, but comfort, too. I want it for her. I want it for me.

I'm better at showing ... than telling.

She makes me feel vulnerable. But that's only part of it. She also makes me strong. It makes me brave. Not her love for me or mine for her. But ours together. It's one thing.

This is our place. It belongs to her and me alone. It can't be conquered or compromised.

Her face falls forward, her cheeks are pink, her lip between her teeth, the roll of her hips against me is steady and languid.

Her hand—pressed to my heart—reminds me of my first dream of her.

_Don't think you're so broken that I can't break you more. To fix you._

I push my hand into her hair, curling my fingers and bringing her down to me. I need more of me to be touching more of her. I need to feel the contact of her body. I need her close to me.

I need her.

It will never be over. It will never wane. It will never dim or fade.

Ever.

In my life there have been moments of happiness, but there has never been _rightness_. There has never been completion. Being close to her, I feel the iron melt from my bones.

I feel like I'm home.

I feel like myself.

* * *

><p><strong>(((High Fidelity)))<strong>


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